


All Dead Now

by Pinchetta



Category: Bandom, Bands - Various, Gerard Way and the Hormones, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, frnkiero andthe cellabration
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Apocalypse, Blood, Bruises, Crying, Cuddles, Death, Depression, Desperation, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Escape, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fire, Frerard, Gerard looking after Frank, Gore, Graphic Description, Grief, Guns, Hallucinations, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MCR, Male on Male rape scene, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Pain, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Post-Apocalypse, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Sad, Scars, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Sick Character, Sick Frank Iero, Suicide Attempt, Survival, Tears, Threats, Torture, Trauma, Triggers, Violence, Vomiting, child abuse flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 105,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinchetta/pseuds/Pinchetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard, Frank and other survivors of a deadly plague are locked inside a filthy prison city and left to die. Between the riots and starvation, they try to escape and stay alive for as long as they can...</p><p>((Please read tags, many possible triggers including torture and sexual abuse.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frank

‘Come back...'  
Every word scrapes my parched throat raw and I can taste my own blood and puke. A pathetic croak in the darkness. ‘…Come back, Gee... Please...don't fucking leave me...’  
I don’t know who I’m talking to. He can't hear me now and there’s no one else here, just the rats and the roaches. People always used to say that cockroaches could survive an apocalypse. They were right.  
I guess I'm talking to myself because my voice is all I have left, the last shred of me and I'm fading so fast at this rate I won't make it til dawn. I can beg the universe to be kind just this once and let me live...but I don't see it happening.  
No one’s listening.  
'Please God...let him come back...' The fever must be making me delirious, I don’t believe in God. I always figured that if an all-powerful being was watching over our planet like a kid watches an ant-farm, it wouldn't give a shit about me.

So I give up on praying and my voice gives up on me. My throat’s so fucked up I can’t say another word and there's no clean water in this place of ashes to quench my thirst. Thin sticky vomit is crusting on my t-shirt. I can barely move, can hardly breathe. Lying here on the dirty concrete that smells like piss and gasoline I'm so, so cold, but worst of all is the motherfucking pain. Agony is drilling white-hot holes through my skull and I cover my mouth with shaking hands to muffle the sobs and groans escaping my cracked lips. I don't want anyone but Gerard to find me here. My fingers are bloody, half the nails torn off. I don’t remember how that happened.

This disaster of a night was all my fault and we wouldn’t still be stuck here if it wasn’t for me. I'm the one who got sick. Who always gets fucking sick! From dirty water, rats or chemicals, I don't really know this time, but I'm half-blind with headaches and burning with fever, too weak to walk and puking up every stolen scrap of food in my aching guts. My skin hurts when I move and the distant gunshots and screams coming from the city gates roar like jet engines in my ears. I probably won’t make it this time. I’m too far gone and I'm slipping. Game Over, kid. So long and good fucking night.

Gerard tried his best to keep me moving, to keep me on my feet long enough to get to the medical scanners at the South Gate by midnight. If we had made it in time we would have been released. Getting a pass would have got us outside of these iron walls and onto a truck bound for Bio-Clearance and a different refugee city, hopefully a nicer one than this hell hole, maybe even one free of riots and full of food. Anything but a giant crater would be better than here. But we didn't make it and I vaguely remember collapsing face first on a broken pavement somewhere, my head spinning. Gerard tried to help me up but I could barely keep my eyes open let alone stand. He tried to carry me on his back but he was too weak from hunger to lift me up and when he couldn’t drag me over the barricade of rubble and broken furniture mapping out our District I begged him to leave me behind but he wouldn‘t, the stupid bastard.

A crowd of other citizens - skeletal junkies, skinhead thugs, whores and pimps, moms with hungry crying kids – trampled us in their rush to beat the deadline that had only been announced over the District speakers an hour before. No one stopped to help us and I don’t blame them. They just wanted to save their own skins. Gee could have left me there too and gone on ahead and saved himself, but instead he hauled me into an old bus shelter and stayed with me like an idiot and neither of us made it out.

The midnight deadline passed hours ago and now the final Quarantine is in full effect - I can tell by the gunfire. The Virus can't be contained in the medical zone uptown any longer so tonight the Hunters gave everyone who wasn’t infected an hour to get to the South gates for scanning, checking, and possible release into the outside world. When that hour was up the city walls were to be sealed again, only this time forever, and the gates barred and armed with Hunters who would shoot anyone else who tried to escape. A couple of thousand people might have made it out in that hour, probably less. There’s no way to know now and I don’t care.

We're not treated like humans anymore, we're just animals trapped in a pen waiting to die. Rats in a cage. Maggots in a bucket. There is no government and the Hunters are the only form of army or police left: sadistic shadow men with armoured hazmat suits and big fucking guns. As the Virus continues to spread they will watch us die through their cameras and from their helicopters. We will starve or kill ourselves, or worse catch the Virus itself, and when we are all corpses they will leave to go and guard another hell. Whatever is left of the outside world is probably dying too but it’s dying slower than we are.

I can hear so much screaming. So many bullets and bombs. My ears hurt and I'm not cold anymore, I'm way too hot instead. I can’t remember where I am. Why hasn’t Gerard come for me? What if someone else finds me here and hurts me?  
'...Come back, Gee, p-please please…’  
I’m just groaning in silence now and my face is wet from sweat and crying. I feel nauseous and dizzy but my stomach is empty and the last time I threw up it was just a dribble of green bile. If I close my eyes I can see the fading memory of Gee’s worried face, a pale blur in a black void, and his lips are by my ear whispering goodbye. He pressed something cold and metal into my trembling hands and then he was gone. He left to find some water and medicine to save me but he's crazy because there’s nowhere to get that shit for free anymore, and he doesn’t have any drugs or food to trade. He’s more likely to get a bullet in his brain than anything else tonight and I just want him to come back to me and hold me tight and tell me that he's going to be alright even if I'm not.

Something wet trickles past my head. Flickers of red fire are peppering the night sky in the distance and I can smell smoke and oil. The sounds of screaming won’t stop and my head is killing me. I want dawn to come so I can see a little light break through the darkness, but everything is black here and the air is thick like clotted blood and it’s getting harder to breathe. I'm turning icy cold again and the rough ground under my body is digging into my bones. Everything hurts and I‘m so thirsty I want to bite my own arm and suck the blood just to have something to drink. I don’t want to die here, especially not lying in someone else’s goddamn urine, but my sense of touch, and sight and breath are leaving me and I’m so, so tired. If I pass out I doubt I’ll ever wake up again. The cold metal in my hand was a gun.

Gerard left me our only weapon, an old six-shooter with one round left. If a Hunter or someone else catches him tonight he'll be as good as dead with or without this last precious bullet (Don't die, Gee, please don't die!) and I'll be left alone too weak to move and dying in pain. So this last bullet is for me. If the worst happens I won't have to wait for this fever to kill me. I can go out with a bang.  
He used to say that all we are is bullets and the day we are born we're shot blindly towards the sun.

It‘s so dark and my head is throbbing without mercy. Shadows and monsters are creeping through my blurred vision and my bones and breathing ache. I can’t feel my legs.  
Where are you, Gee? Where are you?  
I try to sit up but I’m too weak and fresh pain rips through my skull and twists the shadows into demonic faces screaming at me in the dark, howling and spitting blood in my face! This must be it. I'm dying at last and I ain't going to heaven. They're coming for me... Trembling with terror, my heart's beating hard enough to break my chest and even with my hands over my eyes I can still see the demons melting into the faces of my dead family and friends, still screaming at me. Screaming hatred and blame because they died and I couldn't do anything to save them. All my angels have turned into devils and I can feel them clawing at my sweating skin, ripping me apart! This can’t be real, it can't be real...fuck, GET AWAY FROM ME!  
I can’t feel the gun anymore. I can’t breathe and the screaming is getting louder and louder. There's blood in my mouth and I can’t move and I'm so damn scared! The shadow demons crush me, sitting on my chest and roaring in my ears. Stop it! STOP! I don't wanna die!


	2. Gerard

*Gerard's POV*

A roar of noise and the stench of petrol hit me like a tidal wave as an explosion blows the street apart. The building behind me shatters and I'm thrown to the ground and showered in broken bricks and plaster. All the air is punched from my lungs and my ears ring as I eat concrete and blood sprays from my mouth and nose. The ground shakes and I lie there half-deaf and coughing on smoke as another missile grenade streaks over my head and hits another building fifty feet away. BOOM! People are howling like animals and one lone voice nearby is laughing hysterically. I wait a flew seconds, spitting red on the broken pavement, and sure enough the giggling joker with the missile launcher gets a bullet to the brain from a Hunter sniper in the helicopter circling overhead. I'm still alive. Wiping my bloody nose on my sleeve, I slowly sit up panting and coughing and watch the helicopter sweep the wrecked street with a searchlight before soaring carelessly away into the dark. Staggering to my feet, I ignore the chaos and other bleeding survivors around me and try to keep the fuck out of everybody’s way as I stumble through the clouds of smoke billowing down the sidewalk.

The city's street-lights had their power cut months ago and only dying flashlights and fires give any illumination to the dark smokey haze. I can barely see where I’m going and my eyes sting from the ash and poison in the air. I thought that heading North through the city away from the chaos at the gates would be a good idea, but now I realise riots and panic have spread everywhere and I can’t avoid them no matter where I run. Everyone is freaking out because of the quarantine and when frightened humans are cornered they'll try to fight or flee but there‘s no escape from this particular hell: there is no way out. So fighting it is. In the morning when the streets are lined with corpses maybe the survivors will accept their fate. For now all I care about is making sure Frank doesn't join the piles of dead. 

Molotov cocktails fall like shooting stars, blossoming flames, and overhead more helicopters prowl through the smog keeping a careful watch on the rising death toll. Fuck it, I might as well head deeper into the madness now. I need water and medical supplies and the only place I’ll find them is where there are injured people... even if I do get the shit kicked out of me.

Bruised and aching, I stagger towards an old clinic, my boots slipping on puddles of smoking garbage as I scan the ground for scraps to eat or drink, stuff someone might have dropped. As usual there's nothing. Edging around the angry human herds, I mop sticky blood off my lips - my nose won’t stop leaking - and I'm sweating through my clothes in the heat from the scattered fires. When I finally reach the clinic it's nothing but a smoking ruin and my heart sinks into the dirty pavement even though I was kind of expecting it. What do I do now? This dying city is choked with scores of other homeless bums like me but I don't know any I can actually trust or turn to for help. All I have is Frankie and I've got to get back to him but if I return empty-handed he’ll die from his sickness. I won't survive this place without him, I know that.

Further down the block an entire apartment building is on fire and the surviving residents are screaming for help or justice or whatever. Someone save us! That kind of thing. The Hunters aren't doing anything to help and they were probably the ones responsible for the blaze since they don’t have to worry about destroying healthy people’s homes anymore. The Virus has finally breached the city's containment zone and we’re all just the walking dead to those assholes now. 

I have no real concept of how long I've been on the move but after a while I realize I've slowed to a sort of stunned trudge, too exhausted to go faster. It's hot and claustrophobic on the crowded street and I can't breathe in the fumes so I climb on top of a rusty dumpster and use it to scramble up higher onto the flat roof of someone’s garage. Smoke and flames are billowing out from at least a dozen buildings now and filthy survivors are trampling each other to death in the gutters. I watch mindlessly as the tide of squatters and broken families; kids in torn clothes clutching switchblade knives and gangs of men with shotguns and axes, roar for the Hunters to come out and do something. It’s anarchy and nobody cares. No one is ever, ever coming to help us. Swallowing a warm lump in my throat, I wipe my leaky nose again, smearing blood down my chin, and scan the block with watering eyes for any sign of the silver Hunter SUVs that usually carry medical supplies and food rations around the city. I can‘t see any tonight. They must have already retreated from this district. Maybe from the whole city. Maybe forever. I never should have left Frankie alone...  
Sweat runs down my face and neck and I'm getting dizzy from breathing smoke and fumes. My ears echo with the sound of helicopter blades and cries of terror Shit, I should probably climb down from here before I fall...

The crack of a nearby gunshot forces me to move and I jump down onto the dumpster and into the street again just in time for a fresh crowd of fleeing bodies to knock me sideways through a broken shop window. The world lurches and I land with a crash in a huge dusty pile of broken glass. A hundred little daggers dig into my back as I roll off the debris in shock, panting for breath, and my hands and scalp feel full of tiny splinters. Fucking dammit! Crawling on bloody hands and knees, I clamber back outside and stand up warily as a new mob of about thirty people arrive on the scene looking tired and scared. They're armed with kitchen knives and cans of mace and are carrying bags of belongings and clutching small children: a bunch of rejects from the gates. They must not have gotten through in time... or maybe they weren’t allowed out because they have the Virus. Fuck!

Tense and nauseous with sudden panic, I dash away down the street to avoid bodily contact with the newcomers and I’m not the only one who thinks these people are infected because soon a dozen men and women have appeared pointing guns at them. Fresh weapons are drawn in response and nobody can distinguish the innocent from the psychotic or the possibly-infected from their healthy friends. Masked Hunters start sliding down out of the sky on long black ropes and shots are fired. Warnings bellow through megaphones and blood splatters. People with kids try to run and everyone else tries to tear each other apart! My eyes feel like they’re melting as I stand frozen and staring in the flickering firelight as a filthy man climbs over some wrecked cars to escape the riot only to be shot dead by a woman with a baby in her arms. An elderly woman clutching a baseball bat savagely beats a teenage boy to the ground and a pair of Hunters dressed in riot gear trample a stray puppy underfoot. 

The hot sweaty air is choked with soot and pepper spray and everyone is brandishing a weapon of some kind, even if its just a two-by-four. Everyone except me: I left my only weapon with Frank. I should be pissing my pants right now, but all I feel is a numb fog of detachment like I’m watching a movie on a screen about the end of the world and none of it is really happening. I look down at my hands, pale and bloody, and feel a twinge of fear. My nose hurts. Panic skitters through my stomach. I can smell blood and burned flesh and alcohol. Run, a voice in my mind whispers, Run, you fucking moron! Snapping back to reality, I bolt down the block in search of safety. I need to save Frank, he’s all that matters.

It doesn’t take long for the Hunters to regain control of the District but until they do chaos reigns. About an hour later I find myself wandering down a desolate boulevard somewhere on the east side and I don't really remember how I got there. My nose still hurts and my skin feels raw and sticky. It’s a couple of hours before dawn and I can taste smoke. There’s a chunk of brick in my right hand and my knees are bleeding. My head is spinning so much from heat and hunger that I can’t see straight. 

I find a dark quiet house with the front door split open and barge inside, hoping to find something to help Frank. The place has been ransacked already but I manage to find a dented metal can of peaches in the kitchen and a pair of scissors stuck behind the stripped sofa. Cutting open the can I slurp down the watery chunks of fruit and syrup and the jagged metal stings my lips and tongue. I don’t feel any better for eating something but at least I won’t pass out now. Outside there’s a crossroads and I automatically wait to see if a car is coming even though there’s only a handful of vehicles left in the whole city these days. As I hesitate something hard slams into my shoulder from behind, almost breaking it, and I turn to find the fierce old lady with the baseball bat about to hit me again. “Oww, dammit!” I yell, pulling the bat out of her hands as tears of pain flood my eyes, “What the hell, lady?!”  
“WELCOME to Hell, retard!” the old hag spits, waving a small pistol at my face before hobbling away into the night.

Dazed and disorientated as agony throbs in my shoulder, I weakly grip the bat and stumble away from the crossroads, walking blindly into some overflowing trash cans and knocking a stack of rotten potato peelings to the ground. Through a mist of tears I spy a small alleyway behind the cans and climb over the slippery garbage to get to it, leaning wearily against the grimy wall and sliding down to sit in a shaky mess on the concrete. I’m finally somewhere quiet and hidden from the world, but I’m a wreck and my hands won’t stop trembling. I can’t tell if I'm sick with fear, exhaustion, or something more sinister, like maybe the Virus has finally got me…  
No! I can’t let myself think that way. Paranoia won't help anyone. Still, a surge of self-pity rises in my throat and my eyes start prickling. ‘No, no, no,” I whisper madly to myself, thumping my forehead with both fists, “Don’t start crying, you pussy. Don’t you fucking dare!”

I’m just tired that‘s all. Tired and hurt and in over my head. Dropping the bat, I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and wince at the pain in my shoulder. I can barely move that arm anymore. I don‘t have enough saliva left to spit and there‘s dried blood in my nose. I can’t remember the last time I had a drink of water and that reminds me of Frank again and how he could be dying right now while I sit here uselessly. Taking a deep breath, I assess the situation: none of the rioting citizens will share their supplies with me if I don‘t have anything to trade in return, and the Hunter supply cars are probably long gone from this district. I can still hear the odd scream and gunshot in the distance but it‘s getting quieter now and the sky is turning from black to purple. The sun will be up soon. My only option is to climb the barricades and search for help in another district. Frank is suffering and I have to save him. He’s all I’ve got. I have to keep trying, even if it kills me.  
“So get up, Gee,” I order myself, “Get the fuck up!”  
At least I have a weapon now. I won’t let anyone else get in my way tonight.


	3. Ray

**RAY'S POV**

I’m passed out on my old mattress dreaming of Beyonce – may she rest in peace - when the first missile hits my building. An ear-splitting crash wakes me like a heart attack and tremors rip through my tiny eighth-floor hovel and shatter the windows, knocking over my oil lamp and setting a floorboard ablaze. Groaning loudly, I smother the flames with the old fire-blanket I use as a sheet and stamp on it a few times for good measure. I wasn’t sleeping too good anyway. To be honest I was a lot more comfortable being unconscious before the world went to shit. 

Plaster rains down from the ceiling as another explosion shakes the floor below mine and a chorus of angry shouting echoes outside my apartment door. Probably time to get out of here.

Pulling on clothes and boots as the sharp smell of burning fills my nostrils, I waste a minute fumbling around in the dark for a flash-light before crossing the sea of books and food cans on the floor and banging on the door to the only bedroom. “Guys, what the fuck are you doing? Get out here!” I yell, gagging on a cloud of black smoke as it gushes up through cracks in the floorboards. The battered door bursts open and Ryan stumbles out with his boyfriend Nick behind him. They almost run into me in the dark so I shine the flashlight at their faces and two pairs of scared eyes squint back at me from under two scruffy mops of dark hair. They both look pretty freaked out. Ryan is scowling and chewing his bottom lip and Nick is swigging from a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I’m going to have to be the grown-up around here, as usual.

The building’s fire alarms finally decide to kick in just at that moment and wail loudly as the yelling outside intensifies, and another explosion echoes somewhere further away in the District. I can hear flames roaring in the apartment under ours and the temperature in here is soaring. “Why the fuck are they hitting us?” Ryan demands angrily, “We didn’t do anything! We’re not infected!”  
“As if that makes a difference anymore,” Nick mutters bitterly. He's not wrong. There are too many corpses for the incinerators to handle these days but the Hunters will still kill civillians over nothing.

We're all coughing on smoke at this point and Nick drops his bottle as a deafening crash makes the walls shake. “So let’s leave already,” he chokes, “This is crazy!”  
Pulling my shirt collar over my mouth and nose to block the smoke, I head for the front door and press my palm to the wood to check if it feels hot before opening it onto a cramped hallway billowing with black smog. The only elevator in this dump hasn’t worked in forever and the fire-escape was hacked off last month to help fortify the District barricades. With no other choice we head for the main stairs and join a crush of other refugees .

The shabby stairwell is clogged with smoke and stampeding tenants and reeks of soot and melting plastic. Children are weeping and coughing as ragged adults scream at them to move faster down the concrete steps and after a few seconds I lose sight of Ryan and Nick. I can’t stop to look for them without getting trampled so I keep moving, running so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. I'm half-blind and can hardly breathe and the stairs are slippery with piss and cheap vodka. The lower floors are completely ablaze and flames roar into the stairwell as we scramble past, burning a few unlucky folk who scream in pain. The air is boiling and heavy like an oven and I feel faint from lack of oxygen and the stench of scorched flesh. Upstairs all my shabby belongings have probably caught fire by now. I guess everything burns eventually.

After what seems like forever but is only minutes, I make it outside into a prickly violent night. The noise and panic is ten times louder out here but I’m just glad to be out. Thankfully the building is only ten floors high and I figure most people should have been able to escape. Jogging across the street to the opposite sidewalk, I lean forwards with my hands on my knees and spit a black loogie into the gutter, sucking in huge lungfuls of blessed air until some tanked-up jerk carrying a fire-axe runs into me and knocks me down. When I get my bearings back I realize with a sinking feeling that I can’t see Nick or Ryan anywhere.

The stream of people scrambling out of the blazing building tails off and stops after a minute or two but my friends aren’t among them, and when an almighty explosion from a fourth-floor boiler pretty much guarantees that no one else is left alive in there I feel sick. “No, no...” I whisper as the flames rage higher, “Ryan! Nicholas! Hey, where are you?!” No one can hear me shouting over the pandemonium in the street so I run back towards the burning tower and get so close that the heat sears my skin but it's too hot to go in there now. I'd be a dead man.

A few months back, I found Nick and Ryan sitting on this very street in the pouring rain begging strangers for ration tokens. Two homeless college-age kids: Ryan - skinny and pale and moodily artistic; and Nick - loud and tattooed with gentle Asian eyes and a catchy laugh. They hadn’t eaten in nearly a week and were among the only survivors of a smaller town that had been obliterated by the Virus and the Hunters. A Bio-Clearance patrol had dumped them on my doorstep to fend for themselves and they had nowhere to stay and no one who gave a shit about them. I took them home with me like two fucking puppies and gave them a can of grub and a floor to sleep on. After that I just kind of liked having them around. They’re good guys, fun to hang out with, great taste in music and I’m glad they have each other to love and care for, even if it is here at the end of the world. I'm really protective of them if I'm honest, they're like my little bros, y'know, and I'd do anything to keep them safe. But tonight …goddamn.

Fire has engulfed the entire structure and showers of sparks and burning shrapnel fall around me like rain. I try to get closer but I’m beaten back by the blazing heat every time and the hair on my arms and face starts to singe. “RYAN!” I scream desperately, staring at every broken window and burning doorway, “NICK! Guys...please!” 

Sinking wearily to my knees in the road, I can’t believe I just lost the only friends I had left on this suicidal planet. Tears leak from my stinging eyes and I wipe them away. I need to get off this street and find somewhere safe to stay, if there's anywhere safe left.  
I'm about to leave the burning block when suddenly between shouting, running strangers, I spy Nick crawling into view. He's alive! Bolting over there, I help him to his feet with my arm around his shoulders and he can barely stand he's coughing so bad. Grabbing his chin, I force the poor kid to look at me and wince at his injuries. Most of the hair on the left side of his head has been burned down to short black spikes and his left cheek and ear are scorched and blistered red under the layers of sweat and soot coating his skin. His brown eyes are unfocused and his breathing is rough and raspy. Worst of all, Ryan isn’t with him. 

As the flames burn higher into the smoky sky, I pull him away from the heat and sit him down on the pavement. “Nick? Nicholas, hey, where’s Ryan?”  
Coughing hoarsely, Nick shakes his head, sweat dripping from his hair, “I don’t know,” he wheezes.  
“What do you mean you don't know?” I yell, “You were holding his hand on the stairs! Where is he?”  
“I don't know!” Nick snaps tearfully, shoving my hands away, “We got separated, okay? I couldn’t find him and I got pushed off the stairs. It was so hot and I...I-I tried but I couldn’t find him, I tried!” Cramming his fists over his eyes he suddenly bursts into tears and I'm shocked. It‘s the first time I‘ve ever seen him cry.  
“I lost him, Ray, I fucking let him die in there, is that what you wanna hear?!”  
Shouting is too much for his smoke-filled lungs and his sobs turn into a coughing fit that leaves him gasping. I’m no good at dealing with emotional stuff and I don’t know what to say. Instead I reach over and unzip his filthy hoodie, pulling it gently off him to help him breathe better. It doesn’t help much.

From the cracked pavement I glare bitterly at the fiery remains of our shabby home and shudder at the thought of Ryan dying in there alone. The Hunters, those evil trigger-happy bastards, probably did this while chasing down some random lunatic. I guess we're all just collateral damage to them now. Hate boils the back of my throat and I see red as anger explodes out of my grief. Before I know it I'm walking back towards the fire, remembering how life used to be when everyone I cared about was still alive. When we all lived in proper homes in clean cities, surrounded by camera-phones, cable tv, fast food and Starbucks, and the cops and firefighters and paramedics were always there to help if something bad happened. We never appreciated how great it all was until it was gone.

I’m ready to die tonight if that’s what’s meant to happen. I’ve been ready for years. Ever since the first waves of napalm dropped on New Jersey and I had to watch my hometown burn from a refugee camp.  
I take another step towards the fire, breathing in heat and sparks, and then a hand grabs my arm and pulls me back. “What the fuck are you doing?” Nick gasps, tears running tracks through the soot on his face, “It’s fucking suicide going back in there, don't be stupid! I can’t lose you too, man, not now.”

He’s right of course. Throwing my life away won’t bring Ryan back and our home is gone. A few burned corpses hang gruesomely from melting windowframes, and all around us blistered survivors are staggering away from the scene like zombies, either silent with shock or wailing in pain. “I’m sorry, Ry,” I mutter, finally looking away from the fire and dropping my gaze to the pavement, “I‘m sorry.” 

“Guys, hey!”  
A familiar voice makes my jaw drop as Ryan appears out of the smoke behind us very much alive. He seems unharmed and has an old bandana tied over his nose and mouth which he pulls down around his neck as he hurries over to us.  
“Ryan!” I gape, “You’re here?”  
“Where else would I be?”  
“Jesus, Ryan!” Nick chokes, grabbing his boyfriend by the arm and glaring at him with wide eyes, “I thought you were gone, don’t ever do that to me again!”  
“Shit, babe I‘m sorry," Ryan gasps, frowning worriedly at Nick's burned cheek, “Are you okay? Your face-"  
"How did you get out?” I interrupt, “Are you hurt?”  
“I jumped. Second floor window round the corner,” Ryan explains, hugging Nick protectively and kissing his forehead, “Landed on a mattress someone had already pushed out. I couldn't see you guys anywhere. It‘s pretty intense out here.”

“Are you hurt?” I insist, gently pulling the two of them apart so I can see them better in the flickering light. Ryan rolls his eyes and reluctantly moves his right arm towards me. Under the torn sleeve of his tatty flannel shirt his skin is burned worse than Nick‘s face. “Ouch, Ry, you need antiseptic for this.”  
“We could all use something,” Nick mumbles, spitting at the ground.  
“The Hunters carry medical stuff,” Ryan sighs, “But since we can’t get near them and I doubt they’re gonna come to us, the only other supplies are gonna be with dealers or the incinerator workers.”  
“Agreed,” I mutter, looking warily around at the other fire victims in the street, “We need to move on.” 

It’s not hard to get off our own burning block but we soon run into an angry crowd coming back from some kind of crisis at the South gates, and it gets harder to stay together. By the time we're clear of the chaos, we're all bruised and breathless from colliding with so many frantic people, but on the plus side, I’ve got a new sawn-off shotgun that I wrestled away from some punk who tried to shoot me.

Some time later – I don't have a working watch - dawn is getting close and we’ve wandered exhausted through a hole in the barricades into the empty crumbling Warehouse District. No food or water here usually but also barely any people. Just broken-down abandoned sheds as far as you can see. For the first time since I woke up tonight I start to relax a little. We're heading towards the central incinerating plant for supplies and the loaded shotgun feels reassuring in my hands. I know we’re pretty safe out here in the quiet but Nick still can't seem to catch his breath and Ryan’s arm is causing him obvious pain even though he's trying to hide it. I’m just itching to find a Hunter patrol out here somewhere and rob the bastards of everything they have to help my friends.

“Hey, what’s that?” Ryan whispers, stopping in his tracks and making Nick stop too. Squinting in the gloom, I follow his pointing finger and see a tiny flash of silver coming from the far end of an alley over to our left. My heart jumps at the sight. This could be the Holy Grail of supplies: a Hunter SUV. These vehicles are as well-equipped as the old ambulances used to be and if we’ve found one I’ll have to rob it or die trying.  
I pause for a second, fingering the shotgun trigger and watching the area for signs of movement, then silently lead the boys to the mouth of the alley. We’re running out of time. Nick is stumbling like a drunk person and biting his sleeve to keep from coughing and his tattooed skin looks shockingly pale in the faint moonlight. I watched enough hospital dramas back in the day to know that he needs immediate medical attention. His airways need to be flushed clear of soot and whatever other crap he's inhaled before they swell up and bleed and he chokes. He could die out here tonight and poor Ryan would have to watch it happen.

I creep a few feet down the pitch-black alleyway and sure enough the silvery blur at its end takes the shape of an SUV. Bingo. I would jump for joy if I wasn’t so on edge. I’ve never seen a Hunter vehicle that wasn’t guarded by at least two Hunters before and this one is parked with its bright headlamps pointing away from us and the engine silent. Weird. Hunters rarely stop moving in public places. Then suddenly I glimpse movement in the alley itself just a few yards away from me, and nearly have a heart attack. It's a Hunter dressed in hazmat gear so black that he blends in with the darkness. He’s standing facing the alley wall about halfway between me and the car and he‘s taking a wizz. Okay now what? Do I actually have the guts to shoot another human being, especially with a weapon this loud? Taking on a Hunter hand-to-hand would probably get me killed in ten seconds flat, and another one is bound to be sitting in the SUV waiting for his partner to finish peeing. There’s no way I can beat two of them at once but I only have seconds to decide what to do.

Fortunately, fate decides for me. There's a loud ominous thud from the SUV and then silence. The Hunter in the alley zips up his suit and whirls to face the vehicle, his back to me, pulling a pistol from his belt. “Jackson?” he calls tensely, his voice muffled by a thick helmet, “Jackson, respond!”  
More silence.  
Gun raised, the Hunter creeps slowly away and without thinking I run up behind him and slam the butt of my shotgun hard into his back. He crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain and I rip off his helmet and crack him on the head, knocking him out cold. My heart is racing and I feel light-headed. What if I killed the guy by hitting him too hard? I might be a murderer now. The silent gleaming SUV lies ahead and I level my gun at it as Nick and Ryan stumble up behind me. It’s now or never.

Moving on autopilot I walk up to the vehicle before my dumb brain can stop me and yank open the driver’s door, aiming the shotgun at two men inside. One of them is a Hunter in full uniform - “Jackson” I presume - and he’s slumped unconscious over the steering wheel. The other guy is dressed in filthy street clothes and crouched in fear on the back seat with a pile of medical packages spread wildly around him. He's clutching an old baseball bat in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. “Please don’t kill me!” he blurts, staring in terror at the shotgun, “I just need some medicine!”  
Well shit.

“Ray, put down the gun,”Ryan whispers, “I don‘t think he‘s gonna hurt us.”  
“You don't know that,” I hiss back. I haven’t brought us this far just for some random stranger to kill us all now or take away what we need, no matter how helpless he looks. I’m not taking any chances. Shrugging Ryan’s restraining hand off my arm, I wince as he grunts in pain and remember how urgently his burns need dealing with. Meanwhile Nick is leaning wearily against the alley wall and his breathing sounds worse than ever. This is ridiculous. 

“Ryan, take the keys from the ignition and open the trunk,” I order, not taking the gun or my eyes off the stranger in the backseat, “Tell me what’s inside.”  
Ryan sighs but does as he’s told and he gasps in awe when the car’s silver trunk swings open. “Woah, holy shit! Medkits, IVs…burn kits…oxygen…water! Ray, there’s Government Supply Fresh Water in here, gallons of it!”

Grabbing a shiny plastic bottle, Ryan cracks it open and gives it to Nick before getting another for himself and chugging down the cool clean water like his life depends on it, which I guess it does. Fighting the temptation to join him in quenching my thirst, I remember how dangerous it is to be standing out here in the middle of the night with two unconscious Hunters and a half-hijacked car.

Squinting again at the guy in the back-seat, I try to figure out if he’s dangerous or not but I can’t be one hundred percent sure either way. I don’t want to hurt him, I just want to make sure that Nick and Ryan are safe, but if I have to choose between him and them he’ll have to die.  
He looks about my age and his pale face is smeared with dirt and blood under a mess of matted black hair falling over his ears and forehead. His eyes are ringed in shadows and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. “Please don’t hurt me!” he begs, “I don’t wanna fight you, please I just need some medicine for my... uh, my f-friend. He’s really sick and I have to help him. I won‘t take anything you don’t want me to, just please let me go, man. Please!”

“Put down the bat,” I tell him. Nodding quickly, he drops it on the floor and kicks it under the driver’s seat.  
“What’s your name?” I ask, keeping my face blank as I point the gun at his chest.  
“Gerard.”  
“Gerard?”  
“Yeah. Please don’t shoot me! I don’t want any trouble, I just-”  
“Want to help your friend. Yeah I heard.”  
“H-He’s got a really bad fever and he needs water and antibiotics or he‘s gonna die! Please, if you’re not gonna let me take anything then at least let me go back to him.”

Slowly and carefully, I lower the shotgun and swing it down by my side, watching Gerard’s panicked eyes dart between the weapon and my face as he realizes that I’m not going to kill him. Of course I’m not. I actually feel sorry for him. He’s not dangerous; he’s just trying to survive. Looking over at my friends I watch Ryan gently give Nick the first aid he needs and I know I never want to see them get hurt again. 

“I can’t let you go yet, Gerard.”  
“What? No, please, you have to!”  
“Listen, it’s ok. I just mean that if you stay with us for now we'll take you back to your friend and you can use all the medicine you need to fix him up but my friends need medical treatment too so we’ll stick together for now and split the leftover water and supplies between us later. Cool?”  
“Er, sure...cool,” Gerard stammers, sitting back cautiously against the leather seat, his expression guarded, “Thanks.”  
I shrug and lean into the car to give him a friendly punch on the shoulder which makes him grimace as if in pain. “It’s the least I can do since you knocked out a Hunter for us. My name’s Ray, and the punky-looking kid over there is Nick. The skinny one's Ryan.”  
Gerard nods nervously, “Ok.”  
“Guys, get in the car,” I call, pulling the unconscious Jackson out onto the street and taking his place in the driver‘s chair, “And bring us a couple more water bottles before you shut the trunk. We’ve got a truce.”


	4. The Game

**FRANK'S P.O.V.**

I don’t remember passing out - is it even possible to remember that? - but the next thing I know I'm awake and the screaming monsters are gone but I still feel goddamn terrible. My head is pounding like a jackhammer and I ache all over, but finally I can see something besides darkness and dead faces. Even though it hurts my eyes, there’s a sweet yellow light near my face all glowy and soft and it shows me Gerard. He smells like smoke and rain and he's covering me in a thin silvery blanket and kissing my forehead and he's alive! He came back to me! I’m so relieved to see him I think I start crying but I’m too out of it to care. The new blanket feels heavy and scratchy on my feverish skin – where did my shirt go? Gerard puts his hand on my forehead and his fingers are cold like ice and it feels amazing.

There's something soft under my body now and I'm getting all faint and floaty. Gerard says something but the words bounce around in my buzzing brain and make no sense at all. Blood throbs in my ears and there’s weird spots flashing in my vision. A cool wet cloud lands on my forehead and I open my mouth as someone puts something plastic to my lips and suddenly fresh cold water is trickling over my parched tongue and washing away the bile and ashes. Gerard lifts my head and puts something soft underneath it and now there’s water everywhere, clean and cool in my throat and shining in a blurry plastic bag with a long string that’s hanging out of my arm. Wait, where did that come from?

My eyes drop shut for a while and I can’t feel or see much except darkness and water. The cold wetness on my forehead turns warm and sticky and then back to cold again and slowly, very slowly the hot buzzing in my brain fades and I stop shaking. Sometimes I feel tiny pricks of pain in my arms but I don’t know why, and sometimes I see Gerard and he says words like ‘medicine’ and ‘okay’ but I can’t say anything back to him before everything washes away again.

A dull thud brings me back to the world and that’s when I realise there are other people here in this place besides us, moving around in the shadows beyond the yellow light. Who the hell are they? Gerard and I don’t have any friends and we don’t trust anyone but each other. These people must be Hunters or the monsters and ghosts who were screaming at me before and I get so scared I start to cry again. I can’t see anything clearly, even in the light, because my vision’s all blurry but it looks like there's three strangers circling around us and they have dead demon faces, angry and red, shifting in the darkness behind Gerard and talking to him like he‘s one of them. What if I died after all and Gerard isn't really here? What if this is just hell?!

Fear squeezes my chest and I stare through Gerard’s beautiful face until it melts and twists into a monstrous ghoul painted with blood and hate. Screaming in shock, I sit up, fever-sick as my veins flood with panicky adrenaline and throw a weak punch at the Gerard-demon’s face.  
He catches my clammy fist in his hand. “Woah, Frank, it’s okay. It’s me.”  
“No!” I cry shakily, collapsing back onto a damp pillow, “No you’re NOT! Get away from me!”  
“Frank, what’s wrong? Calm down!”  
“He's hallucinating, give him a sedative,” a strange voice growls from the shadows. The Gerard-demon nods in agreement and his murderous hands reach out to grab me. “Don't!” I beg, but it's too late and I'm not strong enough to fight as takes my wrist in his hand and there’s fresh pain in my arm. My body turns to lead and my eyes fall shut as the light and demons disappear and there’s nothing but darkness and silence.

When I wake up again my thoughts are all mushy like chowder and I’m so weak it’s an effort to even open my eyes, but at least nothing hurts anymore. There’s a wall of cardboard boxes and street signs hiding the entrance to our bus shelter squat and comforting safe daylight is streaming through the cracks between them. The demons are gone and I wonder if they were ever there in the first place. Those voices seemed so real though, as real as my own.

Gerard is lying down beside me on a gray blanket and I’m relieved to see that he is my Gerard again with a human face, not a monster at all. He’s watching me with tired anxious eyes. “Hey Frankie,” he says softly, “Can you hear me?”  
“Whuh?” I mumble. My lips feel swollen and numb.  
“Do you know who I am?”  
“You're Gee.”  
“Yeah. Good, good.” He sounds relieved and gives me a weary smile before sitting up and pulling a bottle of water out of his coat. I don’t remember him having a coat before and a flash of suspicion skitters down my spine as I wonder again if he is who he seems to be.  
“You said a lot of weird stuff last night,” he sighs, nudging me gently with his elbow, “I think you were delirious. Do you remember anything? You said monsters were here to kill you...” Frowning worriedly he adds, “And you said I wasn’t me. You kinda scared me, Frank.”  
“I don‘t remember,” I lie, looking anxiously around our little concrete shelter for strangers or demons or a combination of both. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but what I saw wasn’t just a dream, I know it. There are boxes of first aid stuff beside my makeshift bed, and bottles of water and even a half-empty box of food rations. Where did all this stuff come from?

Gerard smiles, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and offers me the water bottle.  
“No thanks.”  
“You need to drink, Frank, even with the I.V youre still dehydrated." "Later. I'll puke if I drink now.” It’s not a total lie, I do feel nauseous but I also can’t bring myself to trust him today. He seems different, or maybe I’m different. I hate feeling this way because I know that demons and ghosts shouldn’t be real but I also know that I saw them anyway. Just like back in New Jersey, before the world started to end… before I’d even met Gerard. Before I even grew up...

“Please Frankie, drink something. Just a little.”  
“No!”  
Nothing feels right, everything’s weird. Am I even awake right now or dreaming? What happened to the gun I had last night? Did I shoot myself and now I’m just dead and killing time with a monster dressed in my best friend‘s skin?

Scratching my head with an unsteady hand, I feel a mass of dirt and dried sweat matted in my hair. Gross. Lifting my arm is an effort and suddenly I can barely keep my eyes open anymore. Gerard notices and just when I’m about to happily pass out into oblivion he forces me to drink some water by pouring it in my mouth and putting his hand over my lips until I swallow it. Motherfucker. I hate myself for being so suspicious of him and I want to be unconscious again. I’m acting like a freak.

With an anxious frown he sets the water aside and helps me sit up against the wall with a folded blanket for a pillow behind my back, telling me not to fall asleep again yet. Nodding in defeat I let him spoon-feed me some cold soup from a ration squeezy pack and I eat it without struggling or asking where he got it from because I’m really starting to feel stupid now. How could I think he wants to hurt me when all he‘s done for as long as I’ve known him is show me love and kindness and try to keep me safe? Why would I even think that about him? Maybe because demons in the dark have had a longer relationship with me than Gerard, much longer than just last night.

***  
After a couple more days I can stand up and walk around without collapsing and do stuff on my own so I tell Gerard he can stop being my nursemaid. We leave the tiny smelly bus shelter in a hurry and trek into the Warehouse District to go and stay in the attic of an abandoned textiles factory with three guys named Ray, Ryan and Nick who are apparently Gee’s new friends. Yeah, we’ll see about that. Still, there’s enough space in the factory for everyone to sleep comfortably and we have enough blankets to keep out most of the cold. My fever is gone but I’m still woozy and tired most of the time and have to spend my days resting and swallowing the soup and crackers and antibiotics that everybody keep forcing on me. After about a week I feel a lot better physically but my mind is all jumpy and tense like a rubber band pulled tight and when the sun goes down out of the corners of my eyes I can still see demon grins rippling under the faces of my room-mates. In the middle of the night I wake up with hateful voices, both male and female, breathing in my ears and I can’t turn them off which makes me scared to go sleep at all. I don’t know what's happening but no one else seems to be able to hear the voices and I don't want the others to think I’m weird so I don’t tell them and try to ignore it.

Apparently Ray and Gee hijacked a Hunter SUV to get us all the medicine and water we needed and then set it on fire a few blocks away from where we are now so the Hunters couldn’t track us down and kill us for stealing. The supplies they got were good - we still have plenty of water and some pills and first aid kits - but the single ration box ran out quickly and the only food we can get our hands on now has to be scavenged from dumpsters or bullet-marked houses. Most of it is given to me because I’m the one who’s been ill but I can see how hungry the others are and I feel bad eating anything. Whether I eat or not though, pretty soon as the streets get emptier and the Quarantine drags on, we’ll all be starving.

***  
One miserable gray day when the weather is freezing and we’re down to our last few bottles of drinking water, Nick and Ryan leave the factory together and are gone for so long that Ray nearly loses his mind with worry. I fall asleep with butterflies in my hungry stomach and when Gerard wakes me in the middle of the night to tell me the boys have returned I can't believe what they've brought with them: two wooden crates totally crammed with stuff that needs a damn good explanation - a dozen bottles of mineral water, a six-pack of cola, a jar of aspirin, toilet paper, coffee, cigarettes, vodka, Juicy Fruit gum, chocolate, bags of corn chips, dried fruit, cereal, candy and cans of condensed milk and syrup!

I’m so shocked I can’t believe my eyes. This stuff is insanely hard to find because the Hunters and gang kingpins control all of the city's remaining supplies now and homeless beggars like us don't get a share, but Nick and Ryan clam up when Ray demands to know where they got it. I could speak up with a theory or two of my own because it’s not exactly hard to guess what happened but I don't. Ryan and Nick have been homeless before and they know the score. There's a hardness in the way they view the world, I can see it in their eyes. They've gone and done what had to be done for our survival: they've sucked a lonely Hunter's cock or run drugs or maybe even hurt somebody in exchange for these boxes of life-saving goodies. Yeah it’s an ugly situation but none of us can really complain when we're so desperate for food, no matter where it comes from.

Eventually Ray gives up on trying to get a proper explanation and we sit down together for a picnic meal in awkward silence. Nick hardly eats a thing, just drinks a load of watered down booze and falls asleep, which earns him about a hundred suspicious glances from Ray. Ryan can barely look anyone in the eyes.

When we've eaten and shared a few smokes, Gerard patrols the factory for a while with the shotgun to check for any intruders and then we settle in for the night. I wake up just before dawn and listen for the usual voices in my head but all I can hear is Ryan crying softly in the shadows and Nick murmuring something I can't quite hear. I hope they're being careful out there but I know those two aren't stupid. . Every morning I look outside and know that this is all just a game of survival now and if we want to eat then we have to play. There is no government and no Law, no police or social services. There’s just the rules of the game and nothing else. The riots over the Quarantine stopped because the Hunters shot all the rioters who hadn't already killed each other. Everybody else is just like us: hiding out in shacks with no power, no heat, and little food, just waiting for the end. Compared to all of that how can I complain about hearing a few scary monsters?  
***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

I’m so scared of this new world. Deeply and truly afraid and it makes me sick. I don't want to admit it, especially not to Frankie, but as time races on and the stench of decay and rotting flesh in the city gets stronger and sharper every night I know I‘m not the only one who’s terrified.

Our factory squat is clean and secure but also draughty and cold and there's no electricity, heat or water. I wish we had somewhere else to go but so many other places are already occupied or bombed out, or in danger of collapsing, or sprayed-painted with black X’s that mean a Virus Contamination. Winter has fallen like a ton of bricks from the sky and every shit-stained street and broken building is scabbing over with frost.

The attic rooms where we live are safe enough from intruders because there’s only one entrance from below, a trap door in the floor, and easy roof access, but they get so cold at night now that I often can’t get warm enough to fall asleep. From what we can tell most of the town is without power and some of the sewers are cracked open from explosives damage, bubbling filth into the gutters. Any lucky folk who still have running water will need to boil every drop of it to make it safe to drink. As for the Virus, it's spreading like a wildfire. Last week an infected man with bleeding sores on his face stumbled onto our empty block and I begged Ray to shoot him if he got too close to us but the poor guy dropped dead of his own accord about thirty feet from the factory door. Ray approached the body to make sure as best he could with touching it that the man was definitely dead while I threw up in an open drain, disgusted with myself for wanting to kill another human being. It took two days for an incinerator jockey to come and take the body away and the dead man’s eyes were open the entire time, staring at nothing until a crow came and pecked them out.

Every night in my nightmares I die, either roasting in an incinerator’s flames, being stabbed by thugs, shot by Hunters, starving to death or freezing or choking on my own blood as the Virus liquefies my internal organs and kills me slowly. Each dream is worse than the last and they all end with the same black birds eating out eyes.

Last night a storm woke me up with thunder ringing in my ears and I was convinced I‘d just been shot. The attic was damp and cold and I lay there shivering in the dark next to Frank, crying silent tears into his back like a little kid who's too scared to leave his bed in case the monster hiding underneath catches and kills him. Frankie woke up of course and I slept in his arms for the rest of the night but not all the bad dreams stayed away. I wish a simple hug could make me feel better but everything I dream about has a very real chance of coming true so I can't rationalise the fear away. I hate going to sleep and try to stay awake as much as possible but without regular access to coffee it's so hard and I walk around like a zombie numb with exhaustion. I feel half-dead already.

Still, at least I'm doing better than Nick and Ryan. The first time they disappeared so mysteriously and came back with enough food and drinks to make us all feel human again I naievely thought it would be a one-time thing. Everyone was hungry and miserable and they went out and did a bad man a nasty favour to make things better for us. But I was wrong. The two of them sneak out almost every night now, sometimes together and sometimes just Nick on his own. They return every morning after dawn, tired and sometimes bruised or black-eyed but they always have fresh supplies with them: dried noodles, bottled water, peanut brittle, tylenol, flashlights, batteries, winter gloves; and as always no explanation for where it's all coming from.

This town is literally a prison and around every corner is a ruthless guard with a gun or a fellow inmate who might stab you to death for a handful of food but the most dangerous prisoners are the high-ranking ones. These guys have their own lackeys and connections and friends among the guards or on the outside, and they will give you things you need if you give them your body to play with. Ryan and Nick have obviously fallen in with a high-ranker and now they can‘t break free of whoever is pulling their strings. Their whole lives have become a prisoner’s last resort and they’re paying the price for keeping us fed.

The two of them only eat a fraction of the food they bring home and spend most of their time asleep, only getting up to smoke or lock themselves away in the factory bathrooms, usually alone now, rarely together. Nick used to draw funny cartoons for his boyfriend on the attic walls and sing us all songs we like from the old days but now he barely talks and hardly ever smiles. He's lost a shocking amount of weight but tries to hide it with baggy clothes and raised hoods and when the sun sets he starts neurotically picking at his knuckles and chewing packet after packet of gum until it's time for him to go outside into the darkness again. Yesterday Ryan started crying in the middle of a casual conversation he, Ray and I were having about 90s TV commercials and he wouldn't tell us what was wrong but it's getting obvious that his relationship with Nick is falling apart. If you can’t find comfort in the person you love then where are you supposed to find it?

Ray keeps trying to talk his friends out of whatever they‘re doing, telling them we’ll escape this hell somehow and it doesn’t have to be this way, they don‘t have to do this, there‘s still a choice.  
“We can‘t stop,” they always reply in the same weary tone of voice, “You know we can't. It’s too late.”


	5. Last Resorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **this chapter contains homophobic slurs aimed at Ryan/Nick. I don't use offensive language lightly but it fits with the character who uses it because he is an offensive douchebag. However if anyone thinks it's too gratuitous let me know and I will remove it. x**

**RYAN'S POV**

It’s so easy for Ray to preach at us and place blame. It's so easy for him to think that if he had been in the same situation Nick and I found ourselves in he would have found a way out of it. He would have put up a fight, he would have walked away. But he doesn’t know what we've been through and he doesn’t know our lives anymore. He doesn't know anything about us.

I was outside our new factory squat with Nicholas, fooling around in the building's old delivery alley when the boss's lackeys first found us. I was happy that day, my tongue in Nick’s warm mouth as he pressed his body against mine, grinding his hips, heat throbbing through our clothes, and waves of pleasure started pulsing through me, making me forget my hunger and even the city of evil we lived in. After the fire Nick had shaved both sides of his head, leaving a long fluffy black mohawk running down the middle and I loved to run my fingers through it. A shy happy moan rose up my throat and crashed into his lips as I grabbed at his hair but as I looked up past his head I saw a stranger smirking at us. 

Flinching, I pushed Nick away and we both stared at the newcomer, expecting him to pull out a weapon. He looked older than us but a little shorter and was dressed in designer street clothes and spotless hi-tops that clashed violently with our dingy, dirty surroundings. His olive skin looked smooth and clean and shiny black hair fell into a perfect jagged curtain over his amused brown eyes. He was like an alien in our world.

“What are you looking at?” Nick snapped, stepping protectively in front of me.  
“Two fags in a back alley, duh,” the guy snickered, raising his dark eyebrows, “What, you can’t screw each other at home?”  
“We don’t have a home,” I blurted at the same time as Nick growled “Fuck you!”  
The stranger rolled his eyes and glanced at an expensive-looking watch on his wrist, “The name’s Pete. Nice to meet you.”  
“Come on Ry, we're going,” Nick said firmly, grabbing my hand. We’d only come outside for ten minutes of alone time but it didn’t look like we were going to get it and the wintery sky was getting dark.

“Not so fast,” Pete snapped as two muscle-bound men dressed in black appeared at either end of the alleyway, blocking us in, “You two aren’t going anywhere until I say so.”  
“What do you want?” Nick asked nervously, his confidence fading with the dying light, “We don’t have anything worth stealing.”  
Pete chuckled and walked right up to us, pushing Nick carelessly aside and staring into my eyes. I couldn‘t look away from him and he smelled so good I could have cried.

“So you don’t have a home, huh?” Pete asked me in a gentle purr. “Well, no. I mean, we kind of do. We live... around here,” I stammered, my mouth forming words without my permission as Pete’s eyes pinned me to the grimy wall. Nick moved towards us, his face flushed with anger, but one of the thugs in black grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away.  
“Uh huh,” Pete murmured, running his fingers down my arm. I could feel the warmth of his touch through my sleeve. His gaze didn‘t leave mine for a second and I could see malice and dirty things in his eyes. “What’s your name kid?”  
“Ryan.”  
“How old are you, Ryan?”  
“Nineteen.”  
“And when was the last time you had a decent meal?”

Honestly, I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t eaten much at all for the last couple of days because we'd been giving any scraps of food we found to Frank to help him recover from his fever. We were down to our last bottles of water too. I was about ready to faint.  
“Do you want something to eat?” Pete pressed, reaching up and gently brushing hair out of my eyes. His warm fingers caressed my frozen skin and I bit my lip, feeling dizzy. I wanted him to go away, just go away!  
“Yes,” was all my useless mouth could say.  
“My boss can get you any kind of food you want, Ryan. Something sweet or meaty, or hot drinks to keep out the cold. Does that sound good?”

“Ryan, don't listen to him!” Nick said desperately.  
“Would you like some new clothes, Ryan?” Pete persisted, “Or a long hot shower in clean water?”  
“Ry!” Nick’s voice fell silent and if I’d been able to look away from Pete’s piercing gaze I would have seen one of the guys in black had put a gun to my boyfriend’s head, but I couldn’t make my eyes or my body do anything anymore. Pete’s face was the last thing I saw before I passed out. 

***  
The next thing I knew I was waking up on a black leather couch in an unfamiliar windowless room that was decorated the colour of blood. The air was hot and stuffy and smelled like sex and skunk and my mouth was dry and acidic. Confused and panicked, I sat up and looked around in a haze of smoky lamp-light. There was another couch opposite mine and a low wooden coffee table between them covered in liquor bottles, melted candles, mobile phones, loose pills and a powdery pile of cocaine resting on a Metallica record. A warm fire crackled and blazed in a red brick hearth nearby and the heavy bass of dubstep music throbbed from a huge entertainment system spread out against one wall. 

Pete was sitting cross-legged by the coffee table on the shag-pile carpet doing lines off Metallica with a rolled-up twenty. He didn’t seem to notice I was awake or maybe he just didn’t care. On the other couch a curvy blonde woman in white lingerie was lounging across the lap of one of the black-clad bodyguards from the alley who was smoking a joint and staring at the ceiling. Another man was standing beside the room’s only door which was shut tight. I couldn‘t see Nicholas anywhere and my heart started to hammer with fear as my skin oozed cold sweat. I wiped my eyes and groaned softly, praying this was all just a bad dream.  
“Hey, you're awake,” Pete said loudly over the noise of the music, looking at me with dilated eyes.  
“Where am I?” I managed to croak.  
He shot me a wolfish smile and sniffed hard, snorting and swallowing before looking down at the table, “You’re in the Waiting Room,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

Yawning loudly, the bodyguard on the couch passed the joint to Pete, who toked briefly before offering it to me.  
“No thanks,” I whispered, trying my hardest not to scream in his face.  
"Go on, it'll chill you out. You don't wanna be this tense when the boss sees you, believe me." For some reason he and the bodyguard both started laughing like hyenas at this and I felt nausea burn in the pit of my stomach. My head was pounding louder than the music vibrating off the walls and I desperately wanted to see Nick. “I can’t. I’ll be sick.”  
“Suit yourself,” Pete sniffed, passing the joint to the blonde chick and dipping his index finger into the cocaine before rubbing it over his gums, “Now that you’re here I don‘t have to make you do a fucking thing. You‘re out of my hands, kid.”  
“Where’s Nick?” I asked shakily, trembling in the smoky heat, “What did you do to him?”  
“Not much,” Pete smiled, “Your bone daddy is with the boss right now.”  
“Who's the boss? And what the fuck is this place?”  
“Enough with the questions. It's killing my buzz. You’re warm and off the streets for a few hours so just be grateful and shut up, okay?”  
“But I don’t want to be here, I want to go-”  
“Home? Yeah but you don’t have a home, remember? You‘re sleeping rough in the boss’s city and you already owe him for not killing your freeloading butt. Besides, you think you can keep surviving out there like you do now? You can‘t even remember the last time you ate.”

Right on cue my empty stomach growled noisily and I felt like throwing up. I wanted to forget this place and all of its dead eyes and hide away with Nick somewhere safe forever and ever but I knew that Pete was right: we couldn’t keep living off of thin air much longer. Everything was breaking down. Before I could stop it my eyes flooded with more tears than I could hide and I buried my face in my hands to catch them all.  
“Oh sure, cry, that’ll help,” Pete muttered, “Fuckin’ fag.”  
“We’re bringing them in too young these days,” the guard on the couch complained, “They can’t handle it. This one looks like my kid.”  
“The boss likes them young,” Pete shrugged as he cut another line, “Young and hopeless is the perfect combination.”  
No sooner had he said this then the door of the waiting room swung open and I looked up into the face of a tall pale woman in a sheer black dress. Her cruel red lipsticked smile shone through my tears as she glared down at me with eyes of ice and beckoned with her finger. “Hey kid, stop leaking and follow me. The boss wants to see you now.”

She led me into a short corridor lit with lanterns with four closed doors spaced along it and led me to the third door which she unlocked with a key attached to a long silver chain around her neck. The door swung open in silence to reveal another large red room, this one silent and dimly lit by candle-light. The woman shoved me inside before slamming the door behind me and I heard the dull clink of the lock again and my heart sank. There was no way out of this, even if I did have the balls to try and escape. This place had no windows that I could see and the flickering candles threw long eerie shadows that in another life might have reminded me of Count Dracula’s castle, but I was too sick and miserable to care about any Gothic ambience. 

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light before I saw Nicholas. He was sitting hunched over on the dark carpet with his head in his hands and I rushed over and knelt beside him without waiting to see if anyone else was in the room. “Nick! Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”  
He didn't move, still hiding his face, and I could hear him breathing fast and sobbing through his fingers. “What’s wrong love?” I asked, gently stroking his hair, trying to comfort him. He felt wet to the touch like he‘d been out in the rain and I could feel him trembling. “Nicky? Hey, please talk to me. What's going on?”

Glancing around us I saw dozens of wooden crates stacked on the carpet and when I looked harder I gasped at the sight of more food and drink than I’d seen in months. Cookies and dried fruit, potato chips and popcorn, cereal, canned goods, jars of pickled hotdogs, bottles of vodka and water, sodas and beer. What the hell?  
“Nick, say something!” I begged, turning back to him and sliding my hands down the sides of his face. The pink scar tissue on his left cheek leftover from the fire was bumpy and gritty under my fingers. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”  
Shaking his head, Nick took a deep quivering breath and finally raised his face to look at me, biting his lip as his chocolate-coloured eyes turned black behind a veil of tears. “I’m s-so sorry Ry,” he blurted, his voice broken with sobs, “He m-made me do it!”  
“Do what?”  
“He w-was gonna hurt you and I couldn’t let that happen! And we’ll all die in that factory without h-help, we’ll starve, you know that!”  
“What are you talking about?!”  
“The food!” Nick cried, slamming one of his fists against the nearest crate, “I’m so hungry and I know you are too. When you fainted I was so scared! I just w-wanted to save you and h-he was gonna make you hurt... Oh god, I‘m sorry!”  
“But I don’t understand. Who made you do what?!”

“I believe he’s talking about me,” a calm voice interrupted, making me jump out of my skin and spin around to see a slim menacing man in an expensive black suit standing behind me. He had carefully coiffed black hair, a thin cruel smile and sly green eyes. He was also pointing a revolver at my head. “Hello Ryan. I'm William Control and I own this city. As of tonight, I also own you.”

I found out later that before this city became a Virus-contaminated prison, Control had been one of the highest-ranking criminals in the State and when everything went to hell he'd refused to leave his territory. When the quarantine lock-down went into effect he actually chose to stay inside the gates because he saw it as an opportunity to run his very own private kingdom: governed by fear and free from any interference or competition from outsiders. His crew smuggles supplies, money and drugs in and out of town with the help of easily-bribed Hunters and he owns the vast majority of local prostitutes, rent boys and thugs but he is always looking to recruit more. That smug douchebag Pete's job is to find healthy, desperate kids on the street and bring them in to join the ranks. In exchange for this service Control keeps Pete in drugs, food, women and new clothes. It's all just a big stupid game.

“You two are my newest toys,” the crime boss grinned, lowering his gun as we cowered on the floor, “And you're both very fucking pretty so we’re off to a good start. If you do what I say, and if Nicholas here fucks or blows whoever I want him to, I will give you both all the food, clothes, water and medicine you will ever need. Oh, and as an added bonus I won’t kill you. But if either of you ever fails to follow my orders or the orders of my men your lives are forfeit and I will hunt you down no matter where you run to in this city and kill you in the most painful way imaginable. Do you understand?”

Nick nodded miserably, already bullied into accepting our fate, but I couldn’t move or speak I was so scared and horrified. I finally realized what my lover had been forced to do tonight to keep me safe and I felt violated and sick, like my heart was exploding in my chest. I stared at Nick in horror and he looked like he was about to throw up, avoiding my eyes and rocking slightly back and forth on the floor, hugging his knees.

Control frowned at my silence and slid his dark gaze over my body. “To save your life, Nicholas already agreed to my terms,” he said, “Sealing the deal with a fucking spectacular blow-job in the shower and I must say he’s got a very talented tongue. I mean, you would know. He must get it from his whore mother.”  
I saw red then, and white-hot rage. How dare this bastard violate Nick and insult his dead family... and how dare Nick let him get away with it! My beautiful brave man who saved my life and showed me that there was still goodness in the world had finally been tainted and broken by the violence in this bullet-hole town and I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t take it. I wanted to kill every single person in the world, myself included, just to make the fucking pain end!

“Here,” Control said softly, crouching down and offering me a bottle of small round pills, “Take a few of these and you'll feel much better.”  
Shaking, imploding, exploding, losing my fucking mind, I snatched the drugs and washed three pills down with some vodka from the crates and I didn’t stop drinking until my lips and mind were numb. I needed to feel something other than rage and despair shattering me inside. Nick was already high and I have to admit that it slightly eased my pain to know that it had taken mind-altering substances and the threat of my bodily harm to get him to suck Control's poisonous cock.  
It was hours before our new boss let us leave and when we returned to the factory that night we had enough food and drink for everybody and two pagers that Pete could call us on whenever he had a “job” for us.

That was weeks ago now and since then we’ve been called out almost every night, although Nick is sent for more often. He couldn’t stand the thought of me having to do what he had already done so he made a deal with Control that I won’t ever have to play the role of prostitute in the “empire” for so long as he does. He saved me from the sex trade by entering into it himself and the guilt I feel about what he’s done hurts me more and more every time I see his face. I’m just a delivery boy, dropping drugs around the city and it's not so bad considering the alternative, but because of what Nick does I can hardly look him in the eyes. I love him so much but every morning when he comes home tired and bruised I don’t know where he’s been or who he’s been with and I feel like I’m being cheated on every single night. I know in my heart he only wants and loves me but his body is now anyones to use and abuse and it cripples me to watch him fall apart the longer he’s forced to keep doing this. He won’t eat, he can't sleep unless he's stoned, and he gets by on whatever drugs or booze he can find to deaden the touch of all those nasty strangers pawing at his flesh. It's killing him to do this, like a cancer eating him away, and I feel sick when I see how miserable he is. Sometimes I catch him throwing his clothes away because they’re stained with his own blood or some pervert’s cum and one night a client beat him unconscious and fucked him with a chair-leg and I didn't find out about it for days. When he finally broke down and told me I cried on and off for a week in front of Ray and the others but I couldn’t tell them what was wrong. How could I possibly tell them this?

Everything is so fucked up and there's no way to set it right. I understand that Ray wants to swoop in and rescue us from harm but he can’t, not this time, and that’s why he can’t know the truth. It would only put him in danger. 

Nick and I are arguing a lot now, about the stupidest dumbest things and he shouldn‘t have to keep saying he’s sorry to me over and over and over again and blaming himself for this mess, but he does and I let him because it makes me feel better.  
I’m so selfish.  
I won‘t let him touch me anymore no matter how hard he tries to scrub the smell of strange men off his skin and that only makes him feel worse and then I feel worse and so it goes on and on. I’m so angry and sad inside but outside I’m numb from hiding my pain like a secret for so long. I don’t think either of us can take this much longer. This is like dying.


	6. Fear

**FRANK'S POV**

Ohgod ohgod ohgod! Shit! With my heart in my throat I scramble up the steps to the attic and grope my way blindly on hands and knees through the dark to where Gerard and I sleep. He's curled up in a warm lumpy bundle under the blankets and I grab at what I think are his shoulder and thigh and start shaking his sleeping body. “Gee, wake up! Get up!” I’m whispering so I don’t wake anyone else but I’m so breathless I can hardly speak anyway. The floor is ice-cold under my dirty jeans. My hands are shaking and a voice in the back of my brain is muttering a long string of obscenities. Gerard groans in his sleep and burrows deeper under the thin covers, refusing to wake up into cold, crap reality, so I shake him again. “Gee, come on! I need your help!” 

I wish I didn’t have to wake him. He's hardly slept at all the last few weeks and when he does his nightmares don‘t let him rest for long. Sometimes I roll over to find him huddled up against my back like a frightened child, shivering with cold or crying in his sleep. I can’t do anything except put my arms around him and hug him until he stops shaking. I hate to see him so scared and it really sucks that now I have to ruin the first decent night’s sleep he’s had in days.

Desperate, I snatch his blankets away and let in the harsh night chill. “Wake up!”  
“Agh, s'cold!” he moans sleepily, reaching out for the missing covers and grabbing my arm instead. “Frankie?...What's wrong?” he asks worriedly, sitting up a little, “Are you okay?”  
“Shhhh, don’t wake Ray or Ryan. I thought I heard something downstairs s-so I went down to check and something's happened. Come on!”  
He grabs his boots, coat and flashlight and I lead him downstairs to the factory floor. It’s cold enough to freeze blood tonight and the howling wind outside sounds like a dying animal. The frigid air cuts through my clothes like a knife and I can’t stop shivering. I don’t want to be doing this right now: having another crisis in the never-ending line of apocalyptic garbage that is our lives, but hey shit happens right? To everyone. All the fucking time.

If I could travel through time I'd go back to before the Virus came, back to my apartment in New Jersey, and I'd lie down safe in my bed with my dog Pickles, my xbox and a pizza. I would go back to when I still had friends and a mom, and the country still had rules and emergency services came to help you when there was trouble, and the street-lamps lit up every night and the mail came each morning and I could visit my friends or have a drink in a good bar, or play guitar at the mall or call anyone I wanted to on the phone because we still had phones and everyone was still alive and safe and we didn’t have to be so fucking afraid all the time!  
But I don't have a time machine. The Virus did come and it took away everyone I loved and everything I cherished and instead of happy memories inside my head now there’s only darkness and the monsters who hate me... 

“What are we doing down here?” Gerard grumbles, interrupting my train of thought as we walk through the looming shadows. Swallowing hard to clear my head, I steer him towards the rusty side-door we use as an entrance to the building and aim my flashlight at it. We usually keep this door shut at night but right now it’s ajar because there’s a blood-stained body propping it open. 

“Holy fuck!” Gerard cries, “Who is that?! Are they dead?”  
“It's Nick,” I whisper quickly, shining my flashlight over our roommate's unconscious face, “And he’s not dead but he’s...I dunno he's real messed up and I didn’t want to touch him.”  
“You think he has the Virus?” Gerard gasps, backing away from the door, “But we only saw him a few hours ago.”  
“I…I don’t know,” I stammer hoarsely, blinking hard as the image of my mom’s diseased corpse flashes across my mind, “No, no, stop it,” I whisper, rubbing my eyes with the back of my fist, “Stop...”  
“Are you okay Frankie?”  
“What? Yeah. What do we do?”

Nick is slumped on the ground lying half in and half out of the doorway with nothing but some ripped jeans and a black vest to shield his thin body from the cold. His eyes are closed but he's shivering and blood is running from his nose and down his face from somewhere under his hair, glimmering scarlet in the flashlight‘s beam. Fresh needle marks track across the inside of his left arm and there are dark bruises between the tattoos on his neck and wrists. His cold skin looks shiny with sweat. Gerard looks him over and takes a deep breath, “Damn, he’s really fucked up.”  
“No kidding,” I mutter, gripping the flashlight so hard my knuckles are turning white. “So what should we do with him? I mean he’s not just bleeding, he looks sick too a-and Virus victims bleed from their nose and mouth right? Maybe he’s infected!”  
“Or maybe he’s OD’ing on something and someone’s fist broke his nose and mouth,” Gerard counters nervously, “Whatever, he needs help and he's Ray's friend. Let's get him upstairs.”  
“But what if he has the Virus?” I insist, my stomach knotting with anxiety, “We can’t touch him, Gee, he’ll kill us! We could be infected already just from being close to him!”  
“What? No we couldn't. Think about what you‘re saying, Frank. Nick was fine just a few hours ago when we last saw him. He wasn’t showing any signs of sickness then and the Virus doesn't progress this quickly, you know that.”  
“I dunno,” I say doubtfully, hugging my stomach and backing away as a shudder of memory fills my mind‘s eye: my cousin‘s dying face vomiting blood.  
“Frank, be rational. He doesn't have the Virus and we have to help him, he’s our friend and he’s hurt.”  
“But what if he is infected!”  
“He isn’t!”  
“You can’t know that!”  
“Dude, look at him! Someone's obviously beat him up for whatever drugs he’s taken too much of and left him for dead. Grab his legs and help me move him.”  
“No!”  
Exasperated, Gerard bends down and takes Nicholas’ wrists in his bare hands then glares at me until I force myself to calm down a notch. My stomach hurts from stress and the corpses in my eyes won’t go away. My hands feel numb and I’m so cold my teeth are chattering.  
“Help me move him, Frankie,” Gee says softly, “I need you, come on.” 

***  
Ray and Ryan are still sleeping when we get upstairs and we carry Nick into a small side-room we use for storage and lay him down on a pile of cobwebby fabric samples leftover from the factory’s heyday. The second I can let go of him I scramble to find a first-aid kit and grab some antiseptic, squeezing the green gel into my hands and rubbing them hard together. I'm still paranoid about infection and even after Gerard takes Nick’s temperature and tells me it’s a little low rather than too high so there’s no way he has the Virus, I can’t stop freaking out. My skin prickles and my hands curl into fists as a buzzing hum of voices and bad images flicker and burn in my brain. I want to hit Nicholas for getting himself so messed up and I want to gouge out my own mind for showing me things I've tried so hard to forget. 

Pacing up and down the tiny room, I bite my tongue so I don’t start shouting or screaming but when I taste blood I can't take it anymore so I run at the nearest wall and punch it once, twice, three times, as hard as I can. Swearing under his breath, Gerard jumps up and shoves me away from the wall so hard that I land on my ass on the floor. “Calm down,” he orders in a sharp whisper, “There’s no Virus here, Frank. Believe me, I know the symptoms by heart and this is not it. You’re safe okay? I need you to trust me.”

Sucking at my bruised knuckles, I watch him clean up Nick’ injuries but he doesn’t look much better when the blood‘s been washed away. His lips are blue and his skin is pale and slimy with sweat. He’s still shivering even though Gee’s put a blanket over him and I think he's going to die. Crawling closer, I lean over his body to watch his sleeping face and right then his eyelids snap open and there’s nothing beneath them but bottomless black holes. “Shit!” I yelp, tumbling backwards as I scramble to get away from him.  
“I said calm down!” Gerard snaps, gently adjusting Nick’s blanket like nothing is wrong, “Stop acting so weird, Frank. What's wrong with you?”  
Staring wide-eyed at him I can’t believe he’s being so calm. “His eyes!”  
“What about his eyes?”  
“They…” Looking back at Nicholas’ face, my words freeze in my throat because all I can see now are his normal closed eyelids, whole and perfectly human.

Gerard stares at me suspiciously and shines his flashlight over Nick's face. The injured kid opens his mouth and stoned eyes a little in response and Gee takes the oppurtunity to give him some water and watches him swallow it. For a split second I feel a wave of relief. Maybe everything is going to be okay after all. Then Nick wakes up properly and sends that good feeling away. Struggling upright with a shocked cry, he shoves Gerard away with shaking hands yelling, “Stop! Get off me!”  
“Woah Nick, it’s okay. It's me, Gerard. You’re home now, you’re safe.”  
“I can’t!” Nick cries confusingly, his glassy eyes wide but unfocused as his narrow shoulders heave with panicky breaths. I don‘t think he knows where he is and I can‘t look away from his terrified face as he stares blindly past Gerard at something only he can see. “Don‘t make me,” he begs tearfully, “Not here, please! GET AWAY!” 

“Nicholas, look at me,” Gerard says firmly, holding his empty hands out in a calming gesture, “You’re with friends here. You are safe. You're okay.”  
“No! Get off me, get off me!” Nick screams, clawing at his own trembling body as his hallucinations get worse. “GET THE FUCK OFF ME! STOP IT! STOP!”  
“Frank, fetch Ray,” Gerard orders, “Now!”  
“It‘s okay, I’m up,” Ray calls, suddenly running into the room and taking in the situation with worried eyes. “Grab him and hold him still,” he tells Gerard, fetching some rope from a storage box and seizing Nick by the wrists, tying his shaking hands together.  
“What are you doing?” I ask in horror.  
“Making sure he doesn’t hurt himself,” Ray mutters, tightening the rope and gently holding his friend’s shuddering body down. In response Nick screams even louder, his voice cracking with fear, and then his eyes roll shut and he starts shaking even worse than before, like he’s having some kind of seizure. “No, no, no, please don’t do this,” Ray pleads under his breath as watery yellow vomit starts running out the corners of his friend's mouth. Ray rolls him over onto his side so he won’t choke and I look away, my heart jumping, to find Ryan standing shocked in the doorway wrapped in a blanket. “What the hell's going on?” he blurts, “What happened?!”  
“It'll be ok,” Ray says, gently rubbing Nick’s back as the younger man groans and twitches, his closed eyes running with tears. “Nick’s just having a bad trip.”  
“Oh god,” Ryan sobs, kneeling down and pulling his boyfriend's head into his lap, stroking his damp hair, “Did you tie him up? What have you done to him?”  
“I didn‘t do anything!” Ray snaps, “This is all the fault of your fucking pimp or whoever’s been feeding you and Nicholas drugs twenty-four hours a day!”

Ryan shakes his head in denial, “You don’t know what you're talking about.”  
“You know it's true!” Ray bellows, “We all know it but you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what kind of trouble you'd gotten yourselves into. I could have helped you Ry, did you think about that? This could have been prevented! I could have helped.”  
“No you couldn't!” Ryan roars, still petting Nicholas‘s hair as the other boy finally stops convulsing, fresh blood running from his nose, “You have to let go of that stupid idea, Ray! All your false hopes don’t mean anything. You can’t fix this! You talk like we chose to get into this mess. Do you think we wanted this? God, do you think I wanted anything bad to happen to Nick? Of course I didn’t! But he was scared and we didn’t get a choice. You don’t know what William would do to us if we said no.” 

Tears are rolling down Ryan’s cheeks and his fingers are trembling on Nick’s motionless face. There's blood and vomit on the floorboards.  
“So the bastard’s name is William is it?” Ray growls, “And where does this pervert live Ryan? Tell me!”  
“No! I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”  
“You think it’s stupid to try and protect you?”  
“We're not yours to protect! Please...just let this go. For Nick‘s sake let it go. You can't help!”  
“Yes I can and you obviously need me to try. Look at Nick now. Look at him! He could've died tonight. He could still die! We don’t know what kind of crap he’s put into his body or who decided to use his head as a punching bag. You can’t go on like this, Ryan, you need me. I can help you!”  
“No you can't!”

The longer Ray and Ryan argue the more tense and sick I feel and the more twisted and demonic their faces get until all I can see are two satanic masks screaming fire and blood at each other over a body with blackhole eyes. Shaking my head against the images, I screw my eyes shut but the shouting doesn’t stop and the monsters don’t go away and I can’t take it anymore, I have to get out.

Grabbing the nearest flashlight I bolt from the room and flee down the attic steps, almost falling in the dark. When my feet hit the factory floor I’m already running and I can’t stop, sprinting outside towards the frozen moon with angry voices still bellowing in my ears, somehow just as loud as before and growing louder. 

I don’t stop running until I’m three or four blocks from the factory and my head is still pounding with noise even though this frosty street looks empty and dark. Trash blows across the road into my legs and the frozen wind catches in my aching lungs and hardens into an icy anvil in my chest. I can’t run away from the bad things: they just follow me. Despair and fear collide inside me like two speeding freight trains and I’m hit so hard by panic I can’t breathe. Stumbling sideways into a graffiti-covered wall, I slide down the rough, icy bricks until I hit the dirty pavement and bury my hands and face in my sleeves, groaning under the weight of fear and bad memories as they crush me into the ground. My flashlight falls into the gutter and goes out, leaving me in shadows. I want to scream and scream until my lungs burst but I’ve already had all the noise I can take tonight. I don't know what to do!

My panting breaths fog in the frozen air and my skin is already numb with cold under my thin clothes. Raging voices babble and ripple in the darkness all around me: all the dead eyes and burnt children and ruined lives of the city, and they rush into me and hurt me and I want to scratch them out of my eyes and brain but I can‘t! I can't ever escape. I saw tonight how easily my fragile friends can fall apart and if I lose them I know I’ll have nothing left but death and the demons in my ears. I'm so sickly and useless, so panicky and weakand pathetic. Gerard doesn't need me. He'd be better off alone!

Exhausted and weeping, I stumble to my feet and wander blindly into the nearest alleyway, into a darkness so deep I can’t see my own hands in front of my face.  
This whole wide world is dead. Everything decays and everybody dies. We're just maggots in a bucket, remember? Rats in a cage. I don’t care where I’m going because wherever I end up, I’ll still be in hell.

The wind freezes my face and I'm so, so tired. Tired of monsters and scary voices and fires and fear and hunger and illness. I want to curl up on the ground and let the cold take me away forever. Over the moaning wind I can hear gunshots cracking like fireworks a few streets away. If I freeze to death or get shot out here then at least the Virus won’t have killed me like it did my family. At least there's that.

The voices don’t want me out here alone though, they want me somewhere safe indoors where they can thrive but fuck them, I’m not listening tonight! I'm not listening to you fucking douchebags anymore! Scraping numb fingers through my tangled hair, I cover my ears to try and block them out but it doesn’t work and they hurl abuse at me, saying that I’m worthless and stupid. Walking blindly in the dark, I slip on something and trip, cracking my head against a wall and the shadows explode into brilliant white stars. Gravity thumps me down hard on my back and I’m lying in frost and garbage as the darkness surges back again and the stars die and I'm drifting away.  
Liquid runs down my face, pulsing over my skin, and I'm so very cold.  
At least the Virus didn‘t get me.  
Everybody dies.  
Hush little baby, don’t you cry…  
Very faint and far away, I think I can hear my mom gently singing and I want to get up and run to her but I’m nailed to the ground and I can’t move...  
…Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby...

*  
**GERARD'S POV**

It takes me a while to realise Frank is gone. When he left the room I figured he went back to bed but when I go to look for him he isn’t anywhere. I know the guy hates arguments, really and truly hates them, but I didn’t think he’d ever leave the safety of the factory in the middle of the night because of one. Worried sick about him, I leave Ray and Ryan to look after Nick and take my coat and Ray’s shotgun outside to find Frank alone. If anything bad happens to him out there I'll never forgive myself.

It’s several degrees below freezing and the scummy sidewalks are hardened with ice. I take a right turn out of the factory door because Frank is right-handed and if he was running in aimless panic that’s probably what he would have done. After that I’m stumped because there’s no place in particular around here he could aim for: just miles of dead streets and rats – both the furry kind and the human kind. He could be anywhere and he left without a coat so if he stops moving for too long he'll freeze! I love him dearly but he can be so dumb when he's scared.

Tensely holding the gun by my side, I walk for a couple of blocks, turning right when I have to turn and jumping at every small noise and rustling shadow. I softly call Frank’s name, hoping I don’t attract the wrong kind of attention, but my voice is ripped away by gusts of freezing wind and my face turns numb in the cold and still no one answers me. In the distance to the west there’s a small pillar of fire in the sky and I shudder at the sight. It’s the tip of the central incinerator and there must be a lot of bodies burning tonight.

The icy gale tears at my clothes and hair and the darkness is almost total because clouds have snuffed out the moon. I broke my flashlight in the factory and I’m almost blind without it. Pretty much despairing, I jog through the darkness for another lonely block, constantly looking over my shoulder and hating the loud thump of my scuffed boots on the slippery ground. With no sign of Frank, I stop for a moment to shelter in the porch of an old auto-repair shop and realize too late that I’m sharing the shelter with the corpse of an old woman frozen to death to the pavement!

Leaping away in horror, I stumble into the gutter and trip over something solid, landing with a painful smack in the road and almost setting off the shotgun. Scrabbling around to see what tripped me I find a flashlight - Frank’s? - and turn it on, shining it frantically around the street and crying his name, “Frank!...Frankie!”  
He doesn’t answer but after a few seconds I can hear something else: music. Loud, aggressive dance music, accompanied by a growling car engine, getting louder by the second. 

Raw with fear, I duck into the nearest alley to hide and shut off the flashlight. Seconds later a slick black Camero with tinted windows growls into view, churning the ice into slush as it prowls through the neighbourhood. Its headlamps are a shiny cold blue and the music coming from it is so loud I can feel it humming in my sternum. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve seen a working vehicle that doesn’t bear the logo of the Hunters or their incinerating lapdogs and I'm filled with a dread even colder than the wind. This must be a crime boss’ car. 

Holding my breath as the Camero crawls past my hiding place, I nearly black out from terror when it stops abruptly just a few feet away and one of the rear doors swings open, glinting in the cold glare of the headlamps as engine fumes billow around the street. They’ve seen me and I've seen them! I’m dead!

A towering, stacked man dressed all in black and holding a large briefcase gets out of the car closely followed by a shorter guy wearing skinny jeans and a fur-lined hoodie. Grinning smugly, the short guy flashes a wink back at the car and slams the door and the vehicle peels away from the curb and prowls away again into the night, leaving the two of them standing in the road and me with cold sweat trickling down my back. 

Shivering slightly as the car‘s music fades away, the short guy drops his smile and moodily holds out his right hand until his large companion slaps a cell phone into it. Scowling around suspiciously at the dark street, he calls someone up and talks angrily down the line:  
“Yeah, it’s Pete. I’m at the place now. Where the fuck are you?…….Nope, no excuses or….… Just shut the fuck up and listen! This stuff has to leave the city tonight, you get me? I’m at the exit door waiting for your sorry ass and if you’re not here in ten minutes, I’m gonna walk and you’re gonna die!”  
With an annoyed grunt Pete hangs up the phone and turns to his silent friend. “Gimme your coat,” he demands, “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

Biting my knuckles, I shrink further into the shadows, not quite believing what I've just heard. Here in the middle of an empty district with no power or running water there‘s an ‘exit door’, a smuggling route that leads out of this hell? The two guys continue to stand grumpily outside the repair shop, ignoring the dead woman on the ground and Pete tries to light what looks like a joint, cupping it in his hands to stave off the harsh wind. This seems like just another regular crappy street, the same as all the others. I don't understand.

Blowing on my frozen hands to warm them, I hug the heavy shotgun in my arms and watch as Pete finally gives up on his smoke and checks his watch in the glow from the big guy's phone. He seems to make a sudden decision and strides over to the repair shop's rusty metal door, casually stepping over the poor dead woman. Taking a large ring of keys from his hoodie pocket he unlocks a padlock and after a quick glance around, he and his friend disappear inside and the door clangs shut behind them. A thin ray of light begins to glow from out of a crack in the metal sheet covering the building's front window and before I have time to think about what I’m risking, I scuttle over there, kneel down and put my eye to the crack of light…and I see it. I see a way out of the city! Sure it looks dangerous and probably guarded by a few criminal underlings but it's definitely safer than making a suicide run at the armed platoon of Hunters guarding the city walls and gates. Maybe there’s a chance for us to get out of here alive after all!  
If only I can find Frank first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ____  
> ____ Thanks for reading! I'll keep updating when I can. x ____


	7. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--- CHAPTER WARNING: death/grieving ---

**RYAN'S POV**

I’ll never know the exact moment he went away but eventually Ray and I realise that the CPR isn’t working anymore and nothing can bring him back from where he's gone to. There’s blood clotting in his beautiful black hair and streaks of white foam on his mouth. His frozen lips are blue and still slightly parted around his last breath and tears are running down his pale cheeks but they’re my tears now and they shine on his bruised skin and run into his empty eyes. It’s so cold tonight. The air shakes and I'm sobbing so hard it hurts my chest. I just want him to wake up and tell me it's alright and I did save him after all, but he's so silent. He's so still. 

How could this happen? I don't understand. Nick did everything right, he did all those terrible things to keep us safe and I would have done anything to save him in return, so what the fuck happened? Why is he so cold and why was he so scared tonight? Who the fuck gave him hallucinagenic drugs and heroin?! He was so fucking scared and I might never know why! I never thought things could get this bad and I never ever thought I would be the one left behind. Did he feel alone when it happened? Did he know that I was here and that I love him and I tried to save him? I need to know but he can’t tell me anything now. He can’t blink his eyes or smile at me or laugh or cry or drink or sneeze or run or tie his shoes or stroke my hair or feel my breath on his skin ever again and I don’t know why! 

He’s lying there like a broken doll, and I hate that he feels so cold so I lie down beside him and pull a blanket over us both, cuddling him tight with my face buried in the back of his neck like he held me so many times while we slept. He cuddled me close and kept me safe. He always wanted me safe. That’s why he put himself through all this pain. His poor hands are still tied together and I reach around his stiff skinny body and pull the ropes apart. All I can taste and smell and feel is him and I whisper into his hair over and over that I love him and he saved me and I'll always be here and I'll always be his... But I didn’t save him in return, did I? I didn't stop him getting hurt and now I'm falling down into a dark deep hole that will swallow us up forever and I don't even care. I hold him so tight my arms ache. I can't let him go. I won't! I've never loved or wanted anyone else. Why can't he just wake up? My tears soak through his hair and run down his neck. He's gone away from me. I want to go too.

**  
**RAY'S POV**

All my useless anger and stupid self-righteousness evaporated with Nick's final moments of life and there’s no argument here anymore, just misery and shock. My legs feel weak and something’s ripped out my guts but I don’t want to examine the damage yet. I don't want to feel anything at all.

Ryan is more upset than I’ve ever seen him and I know there is nothing I can say or do to help. I want to tell him how sorry I am but the words die in my mouth and I know saying sorry is only going to sound like mockery. Nicholas is lying here dead! What the hell could anyone say to make this tragedy less tragic? I don’t think I have the right to speak and even if I did I don’t think Ryan would hear me. He’s miles away right now, lost in grief so hurtful and sharp that he can’t stand to let go of his boyfriend’s body. It's all he has left.

I spark up all of our emergency candles to give us some more light and because it seems like an appropriate thing to do and then I sit down in a daze by the attic room door, propping it open with my idiotic useless self.  
I'm still sitting there when loud footsteps come stumbling up the ladder and Gerard crawls into the room panting for breath. In the candle-light I can see he is half-carrying, half-dragging Frank with him and my heart stops for a moment because Frank looks dead.  
“Ray…help!” Gerard gasps, struggling to hold up Frank’s limp body as it slips from his failing grip and I force myself to move and lift Frank in my arms, lying him down on my bed since it’s the nearest one. To my huge relief he is still breathing but he looks half-frozen and there's a red mask of blood covering most of his face. His dark hair is stiff with frost and he seems to be unconscious but when I lie him down and drop a blanket on his chest, he groans and opens one of his large green eyes - the other one is glued shut with blood. “Shoulda jus’ lemme die,” he mumbles accusingly at Gerard through blue lips, shivering so hard he can barely speak, “I was r-ready. She w-wanted me to go!”

“NO! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Gerard screams, glaring hurtfully as he goes to the nearest crate and throws more blankets and some of our leftover first-aid supplies at the bed, “Don’t you dare talk like that in front of me!” Angrily ripping open a packet of clean gauze, he stomps back over and crouches down, holding it against Frank’s bleeding head. “I risked my life out there to find you and I’m so glad I managed to save your ungrateful butt you don't even know so don‘t you dare throw it back in my face!” Biting his lip, he roughly wipes at Frank’s blood-encrusted eye with antiseptic until it can open normally again and takes a deep steadying breath. “I love you, you fucking dope,” he adds quietly, “And I’m not gonna let you die in this hellhole, no matter how hard you try.”

Breathing hard through chattering teeth, Frank gazes at Gerard in silence for a while, his expression guilty and I sit down heavily on a nearby crate while they have their moment, looking past them at the storage room door. Christ, they don’t even know about Nicholas yet.

Gerard cleans the gash on Frank’s forehead, scrubbing perhaps a little too hard, and tapes it shut before rolling a clean bandage around his head like a Rambo-style bandana. Wincing in pain and still shivering, Frank holds damp handfuls of his dirty hair out of the way while his pal works and finally whispers, “I love you too, Gee. I’m sorry. I w-won‘t do this to you again.”  
“Make sure you don‘t,” Gerard says with a tired smile, lightly kissing the bandage. Putting the first aid kit away, he wipes his hands and rocks back on his heels, looking around distractedly at the flickering candles, “I think we could all use a drink huh? How’s Nick doing?”

Blinking against a rush of prickling tears, I look up at the low attic ceiling and clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck with a trembling hand before making myself say it: “Nicholas is…He, uh, he's dead.”  
I feel sick saying the words like my throat is closing up. Gerard and Frank stare at me in shock. “When?” Gerard gasps, “How?” 

Looking down, avoiding their eyes, I let a few stubborn tears fall and wipe them on my sleeve, “I don’t know,” I answer hoarsely, my throat burning with emotions I can‘t even begin deal with, “It was the drugs I guess, or he could've been hurt worse than we thought. I tried…we tried to bring him back but…he’s gone. His body gave up.” The tears are coming thick and fast now and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop them. “I don’t know what to do with the, uh, with his body,” I sob, rubbing my wet face and looking with dread towards the storage room, “Ryan won't let go of him.”  
Gerard follows my gaze, his lips trembling slightly, but he doesn’t cry or anything. He doesn’t speak either and I can tell that just like me he doesn’t know what to say. Frank is looking anxiously between us from inside his cocoon of blankets, chewing on the inside of his mouth. His young face is clean-shaven today and in the half-light he looks like a kid. 

“I just wanted to protect them,” I groan miserably, talking to myself more than anyone else, “Their whole lives were destroyed and I wanted to save them from anymore shit. I should have tried harder, I know I should have stopped Nick from going out tonight. I could have stopped this from happening, I could've-”  
“No you couldn’t,” Gerard interrupts gently, “Nick and Ryan are adults, Ray, and you didn’t know this was going to happen. None of us knew.”

I don’t have an answer for that so for a while there is just silence in the attic, broken only by the howling wind. I have never felt so empty in my entire life. I could sit for hours unmoving on this crate tonight, stiff and cold, with my head full of grief and guilt, but thankfully Gerard is a bit more productive.

Looking grimly determined, he pulls another blanket over Frank and then finds one for me and wraps it around my shoulders. “Frankie, I can’t let you fall asleep with that head injury so I want to hear you counting out loud to a thousand.” Walking quickly around the attic, he finds a metal fire bucket and half-fills it with whatever burnable stuff is lying around before lighting it with matches and starting a warm orange fire. Crouching over the crackling bucket, he pulls a crumpled box of cigarettes from his coat and lights three of them on the flames, inhaling from one and passing the others to me and Frank. The rich nicotine smoke burns my windpipe and makes me cough as I gladly inhale the warm poison. 

Gerard opens the tiny attic skylight a little to let out the smoke from the fire and then throws some bits of dry plank wood we’ve been using as doorstops into the bucket. When the flames are bright enough, he fills an old tin soup can with bottled water, powdered sugar and whiskey from our supplies and balances it on a metal plate over the flames until it’s warm and steaming. We all drink some and I admit it does make me feel a little better but inside me there’s an ache in my bones that wasn’t there before tonight and I don’t think a warm drink is going to fix it. 

Frank keeps counting for a while, looking increasingly sleepy, then gives up and starts humming old jukebox tunes instead. Gerard gives me a nod and we both make our way over to the storage room where Ryan is still lying lost and alone with Nick’s body. Very calmly and gently Gerard pulls him away and to my surprise Ryan lets himself be moved, either too weak from cold or too stunned with grief to put up a fuss. When Gerard brings him over to the fire and sits down beside him he buries his face in Gerard’s coat and cries his eyes out in heartbreaking sobs of unbearable pain that I can't stand to hear.  
Frank stops humming and stares gloomily into the crackling fire, feeding it shreds of old newspaper and the stub of his cigarette. Gerard puts his arms around Ryan’s skinny shoulders and lets the stricken kid weep tears and snot all over his chest. I sit back on my crate, watching the smoke rise. I’ve never been good at deeply emotional things and I’m not sure Ryan wants me around right now. The last moment we shared together was realising that Nick had slipped away.

Wiping angrily at my eyes, I throw my spent cigarette into the fire and fight the urge to put my hand in there with it. I’ve never hated myself as much as I do right now and there’s only one thing I think I can of to do to make it better. Getting to my feet, I gather the loose threads of my mind back together, pull on a jacket and some boots and retrieve my shotgun from where Gerard dropped it on the floor when he came in, cracking it open and shut to check that it’s still loaded. Gerard and Frank look up in surprise. “Where are you going?” Gerard asks suspiciously, unable to rise and stop me because he’s still got a sobbing Ryan in his arms.  
“Nowhere,” I answer stiffly, “I just need some air.” Like hell I do. I know exactly where I’m going: to find the person responsible for Nick's death. Then I’m going to kill them.

***  
**RYAN's POV**

Cold. That’s the first thought in my blurry head when I awake. A tatty blanket has been laid over me but it’s barely been warmed by my pitiful body heat and there’s a gaping vacuum around my body, an empty void of nothingness and loneliness, and it takes a few moments of dread for me to remember what this awful feeling means: that Nicholas isn’t here to hold me anymore and he never will be again.

My eyes are swollen from crying and as I open them, Nick’s ghost fades away into a dim haze of daylight and an unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus above my head. I‘m not in the factory attic anymore but it doesn't matter where I am now because if it‘s not where Nick has gone I don't care.  
Moving my eyes up and down in tiny glances, I find out I’m lying on a pile of old newspapers on a concrete floor in some cold, rundown squat and I ache all over, especially in my head. The frosty air smells like oil and dogshit and I don’t remember what happened last night after Nick...left. 

Shutting my eyes again, I hug myself under the thin blanket as my chest rattles with the leftover sobs I cried in my sleep and count the bumpy ribs under my ragged sweater. A sharp, throbbing pain builds up behind my eyes and my stomach hurts. I think I’m going to be sick…

“Ryan, are you awake?”  
It’s Gerard’s voice and I can hear the rustle of someone close by. “No,” I whisper, not wanting to talk to him. My voice is barely a croak, so faint and frightened that it doesn‘t seem like it came from me at all. I don’t feel like I’ve even moved my lips.  
“How are you feeling?” Gerard asks, appearing out of the dimness and crouching down near my head. He's wearing a stained coat and hoodie and his usual torn jeans and he smells like smoke, sweat and alcohol. I don‘t want to talk to him. “I…don’t know,” my hollow voice answers.He rubs his eyes with a dirty hand and nods like he understands, but he doesn’t. He won’t ever know how much Nick meant to me and how he made me feel safe when no one else could, how he saved me by sacrificing himself and never once complained about having to do it. How Nick was EVERYTHING to me and I loved him more than I could ever explain. He was my whole fucking life and I'm dead without him!

“He‘s gone,” I say out loud, shocked at how calm I sound when inside I‘m weeping and screaming myself to pieces. My words sound flat and lifeless like my lips and my heart aren’t connected at all and all I want to do right now is climb to the top of the nearest tall building and throw myself off.  
Gerard sighs and nods slowly, his tired eyes full of sympathy, and I don’t want to look at him anymore. I don’t want his pity. All I want to do is talk to Nick and tell him again how sorry I am that I couldn't save him. 

Dragging the edge of the old blanket through my tears, I prop myself up on one elbow and look around. We’re in a tiny shabby slum building that looks like someone stuck a thread-bare carpet in an old garage. It stinks of damp and I can see my breath in the air. Stacks of yellowed newspapers and moulding cardboard boxes are piled up everywhere and a few feet away Frank is sitting slumped against one of the breeze-block walls. I can’t tell if he’s awake or not because he’s pulled the hood of his coat down over his eyes. There’s dried blood on his knuckles. No one else is here. 

“Where is he?!” I blurt in panic, finally connecting my emotions with my voice long enough to make it sound as upset as I feel.  
Gerard sniffs and looks away. “Ray’s not here, Ry. He went out last night to-”  
“I don’t mean Ray, where’s NICK?“ I yell at him, blinking past the pain behind my eyes as it doubles and then triples, “Where is he? Where‘s his…h-his…” I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘body’.  
“Listen, Ry…” Gerard stammers nervously, trying to put a hand on my shoulder and comfort me like he did last night but this time I shrug him off. “WHERE IS NICK?”  
“Please try to stay calm, okay. We…I had to leave him at the factory, Ryan. I‘m so sorry but I had no choice! I was on my own with you and Frank and the Hunters started fire-bombing our neighbourhood. They were zoning in on the factory and we had to leave, we had to, but you were passed out cos we gave you some of Nick’s pills, remember? To help you sleep? I had to carry you and Frank could barely walk and Ray had disappeared and the bombs were getting too close! We had to get out of there and I didn’t have time to go back for Nicholas‘ body so_”  
“You just LEFT him there?”  
“I had to! Please, Ry, I tried to go back for him later but the factory was torched. They burned it to the ground, man, I'm sorry.”  
“YOU LEFT HIM THERE TO BURN!”

Ohgod, tell me this is not happening! Not after everything else, not now! I’m so angry I feel like my face is on fire. All I can see are Nick’s beautiful eyes and playful smile being scorched and eaten away by flames into boiled blood, cinders and bones.  
“Ryan, I tried_”  
“Fuck you! FUCK YOU!”

Gerard flinches at the force of my anger but I really don’t care. I don’t give a fuck about anything anymore. The only person on earth I truly cared about is now nothing but ashes and I can’t even say a proper goodbye. My hands are shaking and a flood of red fills my vision while Nick’s face keeps burning in my eyes. He’s dead but he isn't, he’s asleep but he’s screaming! Watery puke floods my mouth and I spew all over the newspaper floor. Over by the wall Frank moves his hands to cover his face and Gerard reaches out a supportive hand towards me which I quickly slap away. “Where was Ray?” I gasp, sobbing and shivering, “Why did he leave last night when we needed him? Where the fuck would he go? W-Why would he leave?!”  
I’m crying again, heavily, and the rush of salt-water splashes over the fire of my anger and cools it down enough for misery to take over instead. I feel like I’m falling and I’m never going to stop. Nick is gone forever and now I can’t even bury him or see his face again. I can’t even say a proper goodbye!

“I'm so sorry,” Gerard is saying and I can tell without looking at him that he’s crying too but I don’t give a damn. I close my dripping eyes as if that will erase what’s happening and make it all just a bad dream now, but it won’t, it fucking won’t. We could all say apologies forever and ever and it wouldn't bring Nicholas back. Nothing ever will.  
I want to die.


	8. Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ___ Sorry it took so long to update this time! Next chapter will be up witihn a couple of days. x___

**RAY'S P.O.V.**

Vengeance is like a disease. It eats your grief and fear and feeds on your hate until it overwhelms everything you are, and tonight it turns my grieving, numb heart into a furnace of pain and guilt. All I want to do is find the source of that pain - the cause of Nick’s death - and take revenge upon it by wiping it out of the world. There's only one thought in my mind as I leave the factory and my remaining friends behind: payback. A life for a life. 

Maybe I’m cold-hearted and maybe I'm crazy but living through the apocalypse will do that to a person. I had to watch my entire family die through the windows of a hospital quarantine ward. I saw them choking on their own blood and dying in agony and I had to accept the fact that there was nothing I could do to save them. Nothing at all. My parents, my sister, my best friends, my girl… the Virus took them all and I survived. I was considered one of the lucky ones but that is complete bullshit. No one in this whole world is lucky anymore.

I tried to protect Nick and he ended up dead and now all I can think about are his eyes, dark and wet and terrified and I want to cry. He was just a kid, a sweet selfless guy who would do anything for Ryan and he didn’t deserve any of this shit!

I stomp across the district in the dark with my gun, heading for a brothel in the darkest part of our hell, letting my feet guide me. Before I left the factory I searched the ground floor bathroom where Nick often used to hide and found a plump stash of cocaine bagged up in a toilet tank. It's in my coat pocket now as I reach Beau's Brothel: a crumbling three-story townhouse eight blocks East of the Incinerator. About a week ago, I followed Nicholas here to find out where he was sneaking off to every night. The outside walls are painted black and a sickly mustard yellow that I think is meant to be gold. I storm up to the lead-panelled front door and the stink of sex, dope and cheap perfume seeps out through cracks in the wooden boards covering up the windows. A pair of filthy sneakers are slung over a broken aerial on the roof waving back and forth in the icy wind. I don’t even want to think about the things Nick was made to do in here but I can’t help it and a painful lump rises in my throat as I wonder how many times he was raped or beaten, and if he ever told anybody.

I knock loudly on the door and a hole the size and shape of a mail slot slides open next to the peephole, revealing two suspicious eyes surrounded by smudged mascara and wrinkles. The eyes look me up and down and a hoarse female voice growls “Password?”  
“I don’t know it yet,” I say casually, “I’m new here.”  
“Sure yer are,” the woman cackles, “Well understand, son, I’ve got about twenty guns in here that’ll blow your balls off if you try anything funny with me. Whatcha lookin’ for?”  
“I've heard about one of your boys. He’s half-Chinese or something. Baby-faced, black hair…”  
“I’ve got two workin' here who look like that,” the woman sniffs.  
“This one's name is Nicholas.”  
The eyes narrow dangerously. “They ain’t s’posed to give out their real names,” she spits, “But yeah I know the little cocksucker. He ain’t here tonight though. He should be but he ain’t. When he gets back I’ll beat the shit outta him for being tardy, the worthless little prick!”  
“So where is he then?” I ask, forcing the words out while my mind pictures poor Nick lying dead in the factory.  
“Pete Wentz took ‘im to see the boss a few hours ago,” the woman croaks impatiently, “But I’ve got plenty of other kids here who'll suck your dog. If you like ‘em baby-faced I got one who’s only fourteen.”  
“No thanks. I just wanted him.”  
“Then I can’t help you. Beat it.”  
The slot starts to slide shut so I quickly hold up my bag of drugs. “Can you tell me where to find the boss or, uh, Pete?”  
The woman cackles, “This kid must be a better fuck than I thought. I should be chargin’ more for his services.”  
“Where does the boss live?” I ask firmly, every urge in my body telling me to smash the door down and burn this evil place to the ground.  
“I’ll tell you but first you gotta gimme a taste. I’m not giving out information for any second-hand shit.” Two nicotine-stained fingers beckon through the slot and I dust them with a tiny amount of coke before watching them disappear again.  
After a moment of silence, the door opens a crack and an old but strong hand reaches out and snatches at the bag of cocaine so that we‘re both holding onto it.  
“The boss calls himself Control. He lives at 1730 Gordon Street,” the woman snaps, tugging at the bag, “Pete lives there too. But don’t blame me if you get killed just for walkin’ in the door. They don’t like unsatisfied customers.” The old hag pauses and then adds slyly, “Ya might not even find Nick y'know, at least not in one piece. Pete was real upset with him when they left, saying he’d kill him ‘im if he didn’t try somethin' or other, so don’t come knockin’ on my door again if the kid’s already dead!”  
“Don’t worry,” I mutter, letting go of the drugs as my hands start to shake with bottled rage, “I won’t come here again.”

1730 Gordon Street is a large concrete fortress bordered with razor-wire and surrounded by huge black cars. Spikes of fear chill my blood as I stare across the street at William’s base of operations and my legs turn weak and shaky. Grief is seeping into my rage like ice water into a hot bath and I suddenly want to go running home and make sure Ryan and the others are okay. 

Shaking my head, I try to swallow my doubts but my mouth is completely dry. My right hand is sweating as I slide it under my coat and grip the revolver I exchanged for my shotgun with a junkie near Beau's, hoping it will make me feel safer. The weapon is heavy and solid but pathetically small compared to the building in front of me and I wonder if I even have a chance at coming face to face with Control or Pete tonight. There’s only one way to find out. 

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to step off the curb and walk to the metal front door. Licking my lips nervously, I shiver in the icy wind and raise my hand to knock but before I can touch the door it opens from the inside and a cloud of warm cigarette smoke washes over me, making my eyes water. Blinking rapidly, I see three men in a wide candle-lit entrance hall. Two of them are over six feet tall and dressed in black suits - obviously hired muscle. The third guy is shorter and skinny and standing between the others with a lit cigarette in his mouth. He’s wearing designer jeans and a fur-lined hoodie and has a nasty black eye under his salon-perfect hair. He stares coldly up at me and I stare back. No one speaks.

The cold wind whips harshly around the four of us, making the candles in the hallway flicker, and I stand terrified on the doorstep like an idiot with no clue what to do next. The short guy narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. His bodyguards each have a hand tucked into their suit jackets and look ready to pull their guns out if I cause any trouble.  
“What do you want?” the short guy snaps.  
“I-I want...to see the boss,” I stammer. This was such a bad idea.  
“To pay tribute?”  
“Er…no. I have a problem with one his boys at Beau's. A big problem.”  
The guy sighs heavily and scratches his jaw with a well-manicured finger, “Well the boss is a busy man so any problems you’ve got go through me first.”  
“Alright.”  
“So come in already.”

The second I step through the door one of the bodyguards slams it closed and shoves me face-first into the wall with his palms pressed against my back. “Spread ‘em!” he grunts, and with another chill of fear, I spread my arms and legs against the wall so he can pat me down. He finds my only weapon of course and slips into his own jacket. “We‘ll hold on to that for you,” the short guy snickers, “Come on.”

I’m marched down a long corridor lit by candles and the occasional camping lantern until we reach a wood pannelled door which opens to reveal a passage with three more doors in it, all closed. Someone unlocks the door to our left and we enter a large crimson room throbbing with thick smoky heat. Two black leather couches sit on either side of a roaring hearth and between them is a coffee table piled high with beer bottles, coke, spoons, syringes, records and razorblades. The short guy sits down on one of the couches and I take a seat on the opposite one. I’m really starting to realize what a stupid idea this was.

“You can call me Pete,” the short guy sniffs, leaning back, “Who are you and what’s your problem?”  
“You're Pete?” I whisper, my heart crashing into my throat as my hands clench into fists.  
“Yeah. Are you deaf or something?” Pete frowns, “I’m the boss’ second in command. Why the fuck are you here, man?”  
“You took Nick from Beau's,” I whisper, “You hurt him. You killed him!”  
“Killed him? Nah,” Pete laughs, “I didn’t kill him. Well, he was still alive when I left him anyways.” The bodyguards chuckle and Pete grins while I sit there blinded by rage.  
“Oh so that’s your problem?” Pete asks, finally noticing that I’m upset, “Your favourite fuck toy is dead? Huh. I guess that’s why he hasn‘t been answering his pager.”  
“Did you force him to shoot up and OD?” I snarl, jumping up as my head swirls with heat and hatred, “You told the woman at Beau's that you were taking him to see the boss and then you beat him up and left him to die!”  
“So what if I did,” Pete cries, throwing his hands in the air, “He wasn’t doing his job properly. I had a whole line of guys just like you coming to bitch at me because little Nicky wasn’t giving good enough head anymore or wasn’t letting them fuck him hard enough or whatever, so I had to punish him. I had to let him know what happens when he doesn‘t do what he’s told.”  
“He’s dead!” I scream, grabbing a long cut-throat razorblade from the table between us and pointing it at his face. The guards are already moving but I don‘t care. “You little BASTARD!” I yell, kicking over the coffee table and advancing on Pete through the wreckage as hate burns through me like fire, “I had to watch Nick die tonight! He was just a kid and you KILLED HIM!”

Pete’s eyes widen and he jumps to his feet as his guards grab me and force me to my knees, wrenching my arms behind my back and ripping the blade from my hand. “What the fuck?!” Pete yells, flipping his stupid hair out of his eyes and glaring poison at me, “What the hell’s your problem, dude?”  
“Nick was my friend. He was my friend and you killed him!” It‘s getting harder for me to speak and all I can see is a wet, hot blur.  
“Oh you have gotta be kidding me,” Pete groans, “You came here looking for revenge? Gimme a break.”  
I don’t respond to that because I can’t find the words anymore. I'm ruined and crushed and shattered by sadness and despair and I don’t have the strength left to fight anymore. I was never going to win this. 

“What should we do with him?” one of the guards asks, twisting my arms so tight the tendons crack. Pete tilts his head thoughtfully and I close my eyes. The room’s fire feels hot on my wet face. I don‘t want to be here. I don‘t want to be anywhere anymore. “Kill me,” I plead under my breath as my voice shakes with tears, “Kill me, please just kill me now.”

Pete starts to say something then but the sound of a door opening echoes through the room and a strong draught blows the sweat on my skin stone cold. “What exactly is going on in here?” a shrill male voice asks angrily, and I can tell by a change in the room’s atmosphere that the boss has just entered the room. The Boss: Control. The man behind all of Nick’s suffering and pain and my original reason for coming here. Too bad I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of hurting him now.

“Nothing’s going on,” Pete lies, “Everything’s cool.”  
I’m crying and can’t seem to stop, but I open my eyes and watch as a pale man in a black suit strides into the red room and slaps Pete hard across the face. “I asked you a question and I expect a proper answer. WHAT IS GOING ON?”  
Humiliated, Pete puts a hand to his injured face and points accusingly at me, “This stupid fucker wants to kill me!”  
“And why would he want to do that?” the boss asks, raising a dark eyebrow at me as salt-water runs through my beard. Everything hurts so much.  
“Because that guy Nicholas you hired died tonight and he thinks it‘s my fault.”  
“It IS your fault!” I cry hoarsely, “You fucking piece of shit!”

Control rolls his eyes and looks at Pete with mild disgust, “Is he right? Did you kill one of my toys?”  
“Not exactly. But yeah it sounds legit.”  
“I see. Well, knowing you I think I can guess what happened.”  
Pete looks down at his sneakers and doesn’t answer. “Fuck you're useless,” his boss snaps at him, “I’m cutting off your coke supply for a month and you’re lucky I don’t cut off your dope too you fucking junkie! And since Nick is dead go and find his squeeze Ryan in the morning and bring him here. The deal I made with his boyfriend is broken now and it‘s time for him to start doing his share.”

When I hear Ryan’s name my shattered mind snaps back into focus and the tears stop coming. What the hell am I doing? I can’t die here tonight when Ryan still needs someone to protect him. I need to get back to him!  
“What about this guy?” Pete asks, scowling at me, “Can I kill him?” Control looks at me carefully in the firelight and a cruel streak of violence flashes in his eyes. “Sure why not,” he shrugs, turning to leave, “But do it slowly.”

With my death sentence decided, the boss leaves the room with his hands calmly folded behind his back and the heavy door shuts behind him. My only escape is cut off and I am trapped in the hands of murderers and thugs with zero chance of getting out of here alive. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life! Sweat coats my skin and my legs go weak as a wave of fear sucks the air out of my lungs and the guard holding my arms tightens his cruel grip. I don’t want to die here, not like this. Please God, not like this! Desperate, I try and struggle but the guard is unimpressed and a crack of pain spears my left wrist. “ARGHHH! Let me go! Let me go!” I beg as I'm dragged across the room towards a metal chair standing in a corner, “Please, I won’t give you any more trouble! Let me go!”  
“But I thought you wanted to die,” Pete taunts gleefully, following us over to the chair with a broken coffee table leg in his hand. “I’m just giving you what you want.” Shaking my head in denial, I flinch as he slams the table leg towards my face and his laughing eyes are the last thing I see before everything goes black. 

***  
**FRANK'S P.O.V**

Gerard and Ryan are crying and I really, really wish they would stop. Just shut up! It’s a dumb stereotype to say that men never cry, but when the guys you hang out with all day and night suddenly break down in front of you it’s scary because you know things are really bad.

The only time I ever saw my dad cry was on his deathbed. I was four years old and he was weeping like a baby because he didn’t want to leave my mom and me. All these years later Gerard is the only strong person I have left in my life and seeing him cry is like my dad leaving us all over again. Like being left alone in the dark with a fever and a gun again. I’m trapped with the voices and the demons all over again and only I can hear me screaming.

The voices get louder and meaner when I’m sick or tired or upset, and today my head hurts and I haven’t slept in two days. I’m cold and hungry and scared and my nose won't stop leaking. I feel like I’m getting ill again and it might be a cold or the flu but it could always be the Virus and I could already be as good as dead! 

The daylight streaming into our latest excuse for a shelter hurts my eyes and my legs ache where I’ve been sat so long on the hard floor. Everything feels so shitty and I really need someone to tell me that I’m going to be alright, and somehow everything is going to turn out okay and life will start getting better instead of just worse and worse until we all die. I need everything to stop falling apart just long enough for me to get my head together and build up a little strength before the next big disaster knocks me down again, but it never fucking ends in this city. The shitstorm never stops and I know I’m breaking. I can’t cope anymore. I’m not strong enough.

Stop crying, stop crying…stop fucking crying! 

I need Gerard to be strong for me and I don't care how selfish that sounds because I'm seriously freaking out and he's the only thing that keeps me grounded on days like these. He knows how panicky I can get and he stops me from totally losing it like I did last night before I hurt my head. I’m not strong enough to fight the voices and the monsters on my own. I never was and part of me doesn’t even want to. When I was a kid one particular voice, a woman's voice, used to help me when things got rough but nowadays all She ever does is bring up the worst bits of the past and say mean vile things to me and remind me over and over that there’s no point telling Gerard about Her or the monsters since we’re all going to die anyway and it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters! We'll all be dead and cold by the end of the year, just like Nick and my parents and all my old friends because everyone everywhere dies alone and bleeding since the Virus came and I can’t stop thinking about all that death and all those corpses and the gallons and gallons of blood and the dead faces melting and my dead mom screaming and I don’t want to live with it anymore! 

I push my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and feel them shaking so bad my fingers are going numb. My heart feels like it’s dancing the cha-cha and my stomach twists painfully. I feel so sick, ughhh, and She's laughing. She thinks I'm so pathetic. She thinks it’s hilarious. I’m losing myself to this...SHUT UP! 

The sound of crying won’t stop even when I cover my ears with my trembling hands and shut my eyes so maybe it’s me who’s weeping now, I don‘t know anymore. I can’t fight this, it's too hard to breathe and I can‘t calm down! It hurts, ohgod... I can’t stop it! If I open my eyes I’ll see demons but if I keep them shut I see rough, clammy hands coming to grab me in the dark and there's no one to protect me now!

Shaking and sweating against the wall, I bite my tongue as my stomach lurches and my lungs shrink. I can't breathe! Forcing my eyes open I look at Gerard, searching for the safety-net of level-headed reassurance he always gives me when I go into a meltdown, but all I can see in his eyes today is misery and defeat. He’s staring at the floor like he's forgotten I'm even here and Ryan is crying and crying into a dirty blanket.

Dust sticks in my throat as I'm gasping for air that just won't come and I cough into my hands and watch in mind-numbing horror as specks of blood spray my fingers. I freeze. No. No no no! Please God, not the Virus! Anything but that! Let me get shot instead, let me freeze, let me starve!

Panic strobes hot and cold through my skin and my guts tie up in nauseous knots. My mind is racing and She’s still laughing, and the ghosts of hard hands are touching me in bad places and...STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT! The voices think I have the Virus too and they’re pissed off as hell: “Oh well fucking done Frank!”  
“You’re going to die now…”  
“Drowning in your own blood!”  
“You piece of shit!”  
“…You’re going to lose everything...”  
I’m going to die gasping as blood fills my lungs and floods my brain and already I feel like all the air has been punched out of my body and I can't speak. I’m choking already, I’m dying already! 

Any second now I’m gonna vomit up a lapful of blood and I’m shit fucking scared! I can already taste the iron on my tongue. A hot, sweaty buzz roars in my ears as words and screams deafen me, but I can’t find my own voice. Where did I go? Fear cracks my mind and the voices stab into my ears like tiny pokers, running over each other and getting louder and louder with my every forced and strangled breath:  
“You got careless, you got infected…”  
“Idiot!”  
“Everyone’s going to die now because of you...”  
“You little bastard!!”  
“…Gerard’s going to die…”  
“Drowning in your own blood!”  
“So weak and stupid…”  
“…Ryan’s going to die…”  
“…You've killed us all!”  
Anxiety stabs my chest and my stomach jumps to the back of my throat, flooding my mouth with vomit that hits my hands and knees a second later. I’m lost in terrifying darkness as black sparks and shadows fill my eyes and flood my head and it’s so loud! I'm so dizzy the whole world’s spinning…

“Frank! Hey, what’s wrong?” Gerard’s voice seems so distant I can barely hear him and I can't even groan in answer. My hands and legs are tingling and I can‘t feel my fingers - some small part of my brain that's still thinking straight tells me I must be hyperventilating.  
“Frank, open your eyes!”  
I’m shaking too much to hold on. A new hand touches my shoulder and I jerk away. They’re on my skin! It's in my blood! 

“Frankie, shhhhh, calm down. Please, hey, listen to me sweetheart. You have to breathe...” 

Breathing won't help me if I’m already sick. There's nothing in my future but blood and death. Lost in the darkness. Fear forever. Pain forever.  
“No one can save you this time, Frank.”  
SHUT UP!  
“Ashes to ashes…”  
I can’t breathe!  
“Because you're dying, dumbass.”  
“Drowning...”  
'”...with us.”

I think my eyes are open but swarms of red and black spots cloud my vision. Desperately my lungs heave one last gasp of air but I can’t take another, my chest is in a vice. I can’t feel the floor beneath me and I’m blacking out. This is killing me!

“Frank, listen! Listen to my voice, Frankie, come on, focus on my voice. Shhhhhh...You've gotta to calm down now, okay? You have to breathe. It's alright, I'm here Frankie, I'm here with you and you're gonna be alright. Just take a couple of deep breaths…come on, one breath at a time. Breathe with me. You can do it…”  
Gentle hands remove my hood and unzip my jacket. “Come on Frank, you're just having a panic attack, you can beat this. You’re alright, you’re okay. Trust me, you’re alright. Just breathe in…and out…Shhhh, come on. Breathe in… and out…”  
Gerard sounds close enough to touch and I flail blindly until I find his arm and grab it with trembling fingers. He takes one of my hands in his and squeezes it tight, still talking calmly, lulling me back to earth with his voice and his touch until slowly – so slowly - I start to feel better. 

Concentrating on the sound of his voice like it’s the only thing in the world, I manage to swallow the mess of puke at the back of my throat as proper air flows back into my aching lungs and he keeps talking calmly to me for who knows how long, blocking out the meaner harsher voices with his steady stream of reassurance until they fade away and my spotty, blurry vision gradually clears and focuses on his beautiful face. He’s not crying anymore, in fact he looks calm and strong and I collapse into his arms and cling to his coat sniffling and shaking. I won’t die yet. He won't let me.

***  
After what feels like forever I can hear and see nothing but the dull damp quiet of our shelter again and the feeling comes back into my hands and legs. Gerard is stroking my hair in a soft steady rhythm like I'm a cat or a puppy and it feels nice and soothing. Pushing myself slowly off his chest, I take a few more steady breaths, feeling light-headed, and rub my teary eyes. I’m soaked in sweat and my chest still feels tight and heavy but I know I'm not dying. Not yet anyway. Across the room I can see Ryan lying on a bunch of old newspapers staring silently at the cobwebbed ceiling. He looks worn out but I bet I look worse.

“There you go,” Gerard murmurs, cuddling me close, “Just keep breathing nice and slow, just like that. You’re okay, Frankie, it‘s all over now.”  
Opening and closing my mouth a few times like a godlfish, I finally find my voice again and tell him my terror: “Gee, I-I thought I had the Virus! Do you think I do? I coughed and there was a bit of blood and I thought-”  
“Frank, you need to get over this paranoia about the Virus or it‘s going to destroy you. Last night you fell and hit your head really hard. When I found you, you had blood all over your face and in your mouth and I think you bit your tongue when you hit the ground. You swallowed a lot of blood and your body is just coughing some of it back up again today, that‘s all.” Smiling tiredly, Gee peels my bandages back a little and feels my clammy forehead with his hand. “There see, no fever. And no rash or sores on your skin. It’s not the Virus. I bet once you’ve had a drink and got some sleep you‘ll feel much better.” Searching in his coat pockets, he pulls out a crumpled water bottle and makes me drink what’s left inside. “Better?”  
“A little.”  
“You're not sick Frank and I’m not going to let you get sick. We‘re going to get out of this town somehow, I promise, and when we do we’ll find somewhere safe to go. Okay?”

“Okay,” I reply slowly, weak with relief, But there's, uh... there’s something else you should know, Gee. I have these... I mean I hear these...people? A lot. Actually, it’s happening more and more lately. I hear their voices and I know they're real. I see things too...Bad things. Sometimes in you.”

Gerard goes very quiet and gives me a long searching look. I can feel Her hovering over my shoulder, waiting for his response. “We’ll figure it out,” he says at last, squeezing my shoulders and letting me rest my head against his neck. “I wish you'd told me this sooner. I mean I knew something was wrong because you haven't been acting like yourself but I didn’t know it was this…complicated. Try not to worry though, cos we'll get to the bottom of it. Maybe hearing voices and seeing things are symptoms of post-traumatic stress because of everything that’s happened to you in the last year. I mean come on the world basically ended and we all lost so much. I wonder every day how I'm still here. If you’re having trouble dealing with things, that’s totally normal. Do you only hear the voices when you’re scared or freaked out?”  
“I‘m…not sure,” I mumble, lying to him even though I don’t want to, “I guess so.”  
“Then it probably is just a symptom of stress, like when you have trouble breathing or_”  
“But it‘s not! These voices are real, Gee, they’re real and they know things about me, things that no one else knows, not even you! Stuff that happened when I was little… a-and the things I see-”  
“Okay, hold up and take a breath before you upset yourself again.”  
“I didn’t upset myself. THEY upset me!”  
“Alright, I believe you, I do. But whatever’s going on we can’t fix it all today so try and stay calm for me huh. Can you do that?”  
“I can try.”  
“That’s all I’m asking. I'm not going anywhere and I’ll be right here to protect you from any scary things you might see, and if the voices tell you to do stuff that you don’t wanna do then let me know so I can help you. You can trust me. I’m not one of them. Please don’t suffer on your own.”  
“Uh huh.”  
“I know that everything has been really hard for a very long time but we've come this far and we‘ll get through the rest of it…somehow.”

Gerard trails off, sounding worried and exhausted, and leans heavily against the wall with one arm still around my shoulders. I lift my head enough to kiss him softly on the chin and he half-smiles for a second as I huddle closer against his body and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. I slow my breaths to be in time with his and my hands finally stop shaking. 

“Gee?” I whisper after a while.  
“Mmm?”  
“Where did Ray go?”  
He sighs heavily and sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I think you know.”  
“Yeah I think I do, but I was hoping maybe he hadn‘t...”  
“I know. If he does come back though, this is the place we always talked about hiding out in if something happened to the factory so he'll come here to look for us. We can hang around here and wait for him for as long as you like before we go.”  
“Go? Where are we going?”  
Gerard frowns and goes quiet like he‘s thinking something over. “I think I found a way out of the city,” he finally admits, “I found it last night actually while I was looking for you, but it’s pretty dangerous and I don’t know what might be waiting for us on the other side.”

“Oh. Wow.” That’s all I can think of to say. In the silence that follows, a gunshot fires a few blocks away and makes all of us flinch, including Ryan. “Well yeah sure, we have to get out of here,” I say quickly before I have the chance to wuss out, “I don’t care how dangerous it is. I want to leave. Now!”  
He looks at me straight in the eyes. “Are you sure?”  
“Very sure.”  
“Right. Okay then. Hey, Ryan?”

Ryan glances blankly over at us and then shuts his eyes and curls up miserably with his blanket, looking drained and half-dead. Suddenly I feel guilty for thinking that I'm having a bad day when he’s the one who just lost the most important person in his life forever. If I lost Gerard I don't think I could carry on living so I can't imagine how Ryan must feel without Nick by his side. In fact he looks so broken down by heartbreak and pain that I realize with a chill we might have another dead friend on our hands if we don’t keep a close eye on him for a while. I think Gerard knows this too because he suddenly gets up and goes over to rest a comforting hand on the kid’s bony shoulder. He’s probably searching his brain for something helpful to say but after last night’s tragedy I don’t think Ryan can be helped by just words right now. He’s trapped too deep inside his grief to hear them.


	9. Hurt

**Ray’s P.O.V.**

I wake up shocked to be alive with my nerves frying and light blazing in my eyes, scorching my retinas. Fighting a powerful urge to vomit, I squint against the glare and catch a glimpse of crimson wallpaper swaying up and down. Oh fuck. Stomach acid boils the back of my throat but I can’t open my mouth because I've been gagged with some kind of tape. I’m also locked in a sitting position, tied to a chair with my hands bound behind me, and an agonizing sharp pain is burning in my wrists and forearms as a steady stream of warm liquid trickles down my hands and fingers....what the...? Oh god, I think they cut me open! What the fuck?! Panic and horror rocket through my chest and I try to turn my head enough to see what’s been done to me but a flood of darkness pours into my eyes when I move, pressing down on every inch of my body. The pain in my arms starts to fade as I pass out again... 

A splash of cold water hits me in the face like a million tiny bullets of sensation and my nose floods as I cough against the gag, choking. Somehow I force my eyes open and the darkness in front of me melts into the shape of Pete's two hulking bodyguards. One of the them is holding an empty bucket and a blood-stained knife and when they see I’m awake, they move aside in unison and reveal Pete lounging on a couch close by. Struggling to breathe through my nose, I swallow hard and watch him hold a lighter under the end of a blackened glass pipe which he inhales from deeply. Specks of light quiver in my vision as my life drips steadily out of my bleeding wrists and Pete looks over at me with bloodshot eyes and grins, “Oh cool, you’re awake. But I guess you won’t be for long.”

The red room’s fire has dimmed into smouldering embers and there's no sound except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. It’s almost 9am. How long have I been unconscious? How long has it been since they cut me? I look down and see the carpet littered with junk and a black plastic tarp spread out under my chair. To catch my blood I guess. If I wasn’t tied up I think I’d be collapsed on the floor right now. This is not a good way to die, if there is such a thing. It looks like I’ve managed to fail Ryan yet again and taken myself out of his life as well as his boyfriend. 

“So how come you care so much about little Nicky?” Pete asks me, “Why d’you come here on this suicide mission?”  
I don’t try to answer because of the gag. “Let him speak,” Pete orders and one of the guards steps forward and rips the tape off my mouth, taking a layer of skin and facial hair with it. “What’s your name?” Pete demands.  
“...Ray.”  
“And how come Nick meant so fucking much to you, Ray?”  
“W-Why should I tell you?”  
“Because I could have your death sped up to right this second if you don’t. Like lights out, bullet in the brain, blammo! So fucking talk, bitch.” “Nick was my friend,” I whisper as blood drips onto the tarp, “I cared about him. I w-wanted to... keep him safe.”  
Pete shakes his head. “You can’t keep anyone safe in this town, dude. It’s too late to save people who are already in hell.”  
“Hell?” I mumble tiredly, “That‘s what I‘ve been calling it too.” 

My head is so fuzzy I don’t really know what I’m saying but I keep talking, trying to explain to myself why I ended up here bleeding to death in this creepy little room, “I couldn’t keep Nick safe and when he died I couldn’t stand it, not after everything else I’ve seen. Part of me wanted to die too when I walked in here tonight...I know I deserve it. I should’ve protected Nick and Ryan but instead I let them down. I let them down so fucking badly!” I hadn’t wanted to say this much and the room around me is starting to fade out as the pool of crimson spreads under my chair.

Pete jumps up and slaps my face to keep me awake, “You know Ryan too?” he asks urgently, “As in Nick’s fuck-buddy? Well hallelujah cos the boss wants me to bring him in and I don’t have a clue where he's gone since the place he was hanging out in burned down last night. I need you to tell me where he would go, Ray. Where would he run to huh? Tell me where that little fucker’s hiding and maybe I won’t let you die just yet. I‘ll let you see Ryan again before it’s too late. I’ll let you see him safe and sound again, how’d you like that?”  
“Huh?” I pant in disbelief as my eyelids get heavy and I struggle to stay awake, “Why would you do that?”  
Pete shrugs. “My boys here will make sure you don’t go anywhere and the boss won’t care if you’re not toast yet. He lets me take days to kill people sometimes. Anyway what have you got to lose?”  
“Everything,” I spit, flinching as one of the guards wraps a cloth tightly around my wrists to stop the bleeding, “I can’t tell you where Ryan is because it's be like handing him over to an executioner!”

Pete scowls darkly, “Look man, I'm offering you a few more hours of life here and the chance to make things better for Ryan, not worse. Here's the deal. If you don’t tell me where he’s hiding then I’ll kill you right now and go through this whole fucking city shooting and burning everyone I see who isn't Ryan until I find him - and I WILL find him, Ray - and then I’ll have him drugged, raped and beaten senseless before I drag him back here just like Nicky boy. Or, on the other hand if you do tell me where he is then I won’t hurt him or anyone else today I swear to God, and I’ll bring him here just as he is without any violence. The boss can decide what to do with him later. Do you understand?”  
“I understand that you’re an evil cunt!”  
Pete straightens up, standing over my chair and looking down at me with a dark smirk on his stupid face, “Well it sure beats starving to death on the streets.”

The guards untie me, lift me to my feet and drag me over to a couch where I collapse where they drop me in a half-conscious mess. Blood loss has me so light-headed my eyes can’t focus and even though no one is restraining me now I don't have the strength to get up. My aching head feels floaty and faint but my arms are unbearably heavy and when I move my fingers hot spikes of pain rip through my wrists. The smell of my own blood is nauseating and even though the room must be warm enough from the dying fire I’m shivering. Somebody piles cushions under my feet to elevate my legs and I try to say something but my voice won’t work and I just sort of groan instead. A statuesque woman wearing a black dress and latex gloves appears out of nowhere and takes hold of one of my sliced arms, unwrapping the bloodstained cloth around it and looking quickly at the damage underneath. “This is going to hurt,” she says in a bored voice. “It already hurts,” I growl at her but then she picks up a bottle of something and pours it over my injuries and she wasn't kidding because it hurts so damn much I actually pass out again. 

When I come around the first thing I do is roll over and vomit into a bucket someone has considerately left next to my head. I've never felt so fucking awful in my entire life and I wish I could black out again just so I wouldn’t have to put up with it. The same woman from before is kneeling beside my couch adjusting an I.V. line that is delivering blood into a vein on my right arm and I dread to think how these people have acquired their own supply of spare blood bags. My wrists are thickly bandaged and probably sutured too but they still hurt enough to make me want to weep and my vision is still messed up. The woman strokes an ice-cool hand through my tangled hair and makes me drink some flat soda through a straw which she claims contains liquid painkillers. Then she asks in her strange, bored voice if I’m feeling any better. Reluctantly I mumble ‘yes’ and Pete reappears, shoving the woman aside so he can talk to me. She frowns at him and gets up to leave and he flips her off before slapping my face to hold my attention. “Hey Ray, looks like you’re still alive,” he says, bouncing up and down slightly in a way that makes me feel sick, “I’m keeping my part of the deal so now you have to keep yours. Where is Ryan?”  
“If I tell you, you have to promise not to hurt him or the other guys who are with him,” I beg, “And don’t bring the others here, please, just leave them alone?”  
“Fine. I promise. Whatever,” Pete sighs, “If they don’t put up a fight then they won’t be touched, cross my heart. Now tell me what I want to know or I’ll blow your fucking brains out and Ryan's too!”

**  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

It’s still morning when they come for Ryan, and the city is pale and frosty under a ghostly sun. A cold breeze as sharp as a paper cut is blowing through cracks in the garage walls, sweeping dead leaves and dust balls across the floor and I'm sitting beside Ryan watching him stare at the ceiling while Frank naps inside a large cardboard box turned on its side, sucking his thumb kind of adorably. I've managed to find the small stash of food and first-aid supplies Ray and I left here a few weeks ago when we decided to make this our emergency shelter but I haven’t done anything with it yet. 

I’m so tired I can barely think and I don’t even move at first when three men in black coats burst through the door with their guns drawn because I think I’ve fallen asleep and I'm just having another nightmare. The attack is so fast and feels way too unreal so even when the men drag us roughly to our feet I still feel like it’s all happening to some other person and not to me. Someone else is trying to fight back and someone else’s skull is being hit with the metal butt of a revolver. It occurs to me that I’ve already failed in my promise to keep Frank safe but by then I’m drifting away on a black river to nowhere.

**  
**FRANK'S P.O.V.**

A loud bang wakes me with a jolt and I find myself moving without my brain's permission as large rough hands drag me to my feet and throw me against a wall and I have no idea what's going on! Half-asleep and freaking out, I stumble and fall but the hard hands catch me and yank my arms behind my back, holding me upright. The muscles in my shoulders burn and I shut my eyes, thinking that if I can’t see the monsters this time maybe they’ll go away. Please, please, please! But then I hear Ryan shout and I open my eyes in shock because maybe this isn't just in my head and when the first person I see is Gerard lying on the floor in a pool of blood I swear my heart stops.

I can’t speak or move or even remember my own name as all emotion and thought and oxygen in my body drains out through my trembling legs into the floor and if I wasn’t being held up I would fall. Bleak, gut-wrenching horror cuts into my eyes and everything turns gray except for the bright violent red of Gerard’s blood and my mind is screaming 'is he dead? IS HE DEAD?!'

Ryan is still shouting but I can’t understand what he‘s saying. My ears are muffled and the world has shrunk to a pinprick of shadow and I’m sinking way, way down. Without Gerard I can‘t feel anything. Without Gerard I don't want to exist. My lips are open and my lungs inhale once, twice, and then a solid raw lump of hysteria comes out of my chest and I start to scream. I don’t think I’m even forming words, just unintelligible noise and I can’t stop until something hard slams into my face and shatters me inside. Liquid pours down and across and through my skin and I know I should be feeling pain or grief or rage right now but I can’t feel a thing and that chills me to the core because only dead things don’t feel pain. 

Cold air bathes my face and dark shapes move across my vision but none of it makes any sense to me and I am so, so lost. Someone I know is standing in a rectangle of light, moving further and further away, surrounded by monsters in black and I want to call out to him but I can’t find my voice. Shaking his head, he walks over to me and lifts my chin with his hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. Tears trickle over his fingers. My tears I think. “Frank,” he says, “They‘re gonna take me away now but it's okay. Don’t try and follow us. Just let me go.”  
Then just like that he’s gone. 

The monsters are gone too and a door bangs shut and no one is holding my arms anymore and my legs buckle and drop me face down on the dirty floor. The shattering force inside is getting worse and I feel like I’m literally breaking in half. Gerard’s blood is all I can look at – he's not moving! - and She’s laughing at me as I fall deeper and deeper. I want to fight back, I want to stop falling and I try, I try so hard, but despair weighs me down and demons seep into my eyes and hack at my bones, eating me away and crushing me into the dust. I try to hide from them, and hit them and shove them away, but no matter how much I punch and kick and scream against these monsters, these voices, I can’t find a way out.  
'Gerard is gone...'  
No!  
'Now there's no one left...'  
Shut up!  
'You‘re going to die here.'  
SHUT UP!  


**  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

It's dark for a long time. Then I’m lying on a cold hard floor with drool puddling under my chin and a warm slimy mass seeping over my skull which hurts like a sonofabitch. I can smell damp old newspapers so I guess the garage is still here and I’m still here too which is good, but I’ve got the worst, most intense headache I’ve ever had in my life, worse then even the sickest hangovers I used to get back in high school, and fuck me this is not how anyone should ever have to wake up!

Keeping my eyes closed, I spit some gunk out of my mouth and gingerly move a hand towards my head to check the damage: a couple of nasty lumps and cuts under my hair which is wet and crusty with half-dried blood. Pain. Throbs. Through. My. Head. With. Every. Heartbeat. I think my skull‘s about to explode it feels so swollen and I can hear a weird, irregular thumping sound coming from somewhere nearby. I must have a pretty bad concussion I guess. Me and Frank match now don’t we. “Frankie?” I mumble woozily, opening my eyes and seeing even more blood pooled on the concrete around my head. Wincing, I force myself to sit up and instantly the pain gets worse. “Ryan? Are you guys okay?” Silence. 

Holding my head with clammy hands, I look slowly around our shelter at the stacks of old newspapers and boxes and notice with some anxiety that the door is hanging off its hinges and my friends are nowhere in sight. A shot of dread skewers my stomach and I want to barf. Frank and Ryan are gone? 

Hauling myself up onto my knees I get a massive head-rush that knocks me back on my ass and blots out my vision like a swarm of crimson bees. Scrunching down with my head in my hands I wait for it to pass, counting to 10 as agony throbs behind my eyes. Oww-oww, oww, oh god…At least my brain still works and I’m not blacking out just yet. That weird thumping noise has stopped too and I'm starting to remember being attacked by some thugs in black coats but I don’t know what happened to Frank and Ryan. “Dammit,” I whisper, blinking hard as my vision clears. I have to find them! 

Shuffling backwards until I hit a wall, I slump against it for a minute and try to think. Freaking out over my missing friends won’t bring them back or erase what's happened, and it certainly won’t make anybody come over here and comfort me and try to help me out of this mess because there’s no one left now to do that.

Dry-sobbing with pain I drag myself over to the box of supplies I found earlier, find some aspirin and swallow half a dozen pills dry, looking for anything else that will soothe my aching head. It's freezing cold and the icy wind whistles through the broken door carrying with it tiny flakes of snow. Hugging my coat closer to my body, I can feel the dampness of Frank’s tears on my shoulder from earlier and without warning I start to weep uncontrollably. Where do I even start looking for him and Ryan? What should I do? I’m unarmed and injured and scared and horribly alone and I love Frankie so much, I don't know how to live without him. If I don‘t have other people in my life then all I’ve got left is myself and my nightmares and that's too depressing to even contemplate right now.

I cry until I've got no tears left and the painkillers have started to kick in, and then I mop up my face and think about heading out into the streets. There must be some good people left in the city who would be willing to help me, I just have to find them right? Sliding slowly up the wall onto my feet, I pack whatever first aid supplies and rations I have left into my coat pockets and drink half a bottle of soda pop. Walking slowly over to the busted door, I peer into the empty street and I’m about to walk out when I suddenly notice the strange irregular thumping sound I heard earlier has started up again and it’s not all I can hear now: I can also hear someone breathing...inside the garage!

“Frank?” I yell instinctively, turning to look around the cluttered shelter, “Frank are you in here?” Nobody answers so I follow the sounds towards a large pile of boxes and empty trash cans stacked in one corner. “Hello?” Bracing myself, I shove the boxes aside and find a small figure crouched down on the floor. It is Frank and I’m unbelievably glad to see him until I notice the terrible state he’s in. The weird thumping noise is actually the sound of him ramming his fist into the garage wall over and over again in mindless repetition like an animal that’s gone mad in a tiny cage. Blood is splattered on the wall and oozing from his swollen knuckles in crimson rivers and it looks like he may have even broken some bones in his hand but he’s not stopping this self-abuse. He hasn’t even noticed I’m here. 

“Frank, stop it! Cut it out!” I order him, kneeling down and grabbing his wrists to hold him still, “What the hell are you doing?”  
With silent tears running down his cheeks, he looks at me with the dazed eyes of a sleepwalker and there's no feeling in his face, no emotion or recognition at all. Red and purple marks on his jaw and around his eyes tell me he’s been hitting himself as well as the wall and he’s battered his hand to a bloody pulp but there’s no real pain in his eyes. There’s nothing there at all, no sign of the person I know and love, and it scares me half to death. He looks damaged beyond repair and totally empty, like he’s not even here anymore, like he's somewhere much worse instead. Is he in shock or traumatized or, Jesus, brain damaged? What the hell did those guys in black do to him? “Frankie...can you hear me?” 

With a soft groan, he pulls his hands free of mine and hugs his knees to his ribcage, rocking back and forth and whimpering like a wounded animal. He's so messed up. I've never seen him this bad before and I don’t know how to help him. He needs a doctor or a shrink, he doesn’t need me - I don’t know anything! 

All I can think of is to give him a hug and let him know I'm still here so I hold him very gently, making sure I don’t touch his injuries and hurt him more than he already is. With my arms around him he stops rocking and after a few minutes he makes a kind of grunting noise and slumps exhausted against my chest, trembling against me. I can feel the bones in his skinny body digging into me through our clothes and his breathing is all messed up, too fast and too shallow.

“Frank, can you talk to me? Frankie? It’s Gerard, it’s your Gee, please talk to me. You’re alright now, you're going to be alright. I’m right here with you. I’m not in your head, I'm not a monster and I’m not here to hurt you. There’s no one here to hurt you now, I promise. Shit, I’m so sorry, Frankie, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I'm sorry...Will you say something? Please say something, anything, I don‘t care what. I love you, please speak to me...” I keep talking to him like this for a long time, stroking his hair over the grubby bandages on his forehead and rubbing his back but he stays catatonic and silent, flinching every so often like he’s hearing gunshots in his head. “Please Frank, say SOMETHING. Let me know you‘re alright!”

I’m close to losing my mind with worry before his breathing returns to normal and he suddenly looks up at me with huge bloodshot eyes that finally seem able to focus on mine. Gazing at me in surprise, he mouths something in silent disbelief and then lifts his arms around my neck and buries his bruised face in my shoulder. “You came back,” he mumbles, small hoarse sobs breaking up his words like little hiccups, “You came back Gee, you didn‘t leave me! They said you were gone, like forever this time and I didn’t want to listen but there was so many of them!”  
“It’s okay,” I tell him, just happy to hear his voice again. “My hand h-hurts,” he adds quietly, pulling away from me as flashes of agony crease his face, “Oh fuck, it hurts so bad!”  
“I know, love. You sort of kicked your own ass. But don't worry, I'll fix you.”  
“These guys with guns came,” he gasps, looking at me with wide eyes, “They took Ryan and I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t do anything, Gee, I'm so sorry.” He sounds really shaken up but at least he’s making sense and I still have a chance at getting him out of here alive. I’m not going to risk his life for one day more by staying here any longer. Ryan and Ray, if they’re still alive, are going to have to get by without our help because we're in no shape to mount any kind of rescue mission, especially against multiple guys with guns, and if we stay here much longer I know we‘ll die like millions of others have died. We’ll use Pete’s exit door tonight and if death is all that’s waiting for us beyond the city walls then so be it. At least we’ll know we tried.

**  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

It’s finally happening: the end of the world. We destroyed it with sickness and violence and insanity and paved it with all our stupid good intentions and now it’s finally going to Hell in a way that even William Control can’t escape. After tonight there will be nothing left here but a sea of blood and ashes and if death wants to take me too then that's fine. There won’t be anyone left to remember me after tonight and that‘s probably the way it should be. Maybe if I find a mirror I can watch myself burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Hi lovely readers, hope you like the story. I'm going to add a couple more characters soon so if you like you can tell me who else you want to see from MCR/Panic/FOB etc. Let me know. x))


	10. How I Disappear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS RAPE/NON-CON.

**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

This is the second time I’ve lived in a doomed town of dead streets and lost souls. I still remember so clearly the day the wreckage of my hometown exploded with ashes and lethal light. I don’t know why I survived alk that only to go through it again now. I think some people are just born with disaster in their veins. I was never meant to live this long.

When Pete’s musclemen break into the garage to take me away I’m almost glad. William can do whatever he likes to me now because it can’t be worse than losing Nick and it won’t take much more to finish me off. Then I’ll finally be free. I’m not going to fight the inevitable and I stand up to go quietly but it all goes screwy when one of the man-apes slams Frank against a wall and another starts beating Gerard so badly he falls down bleeding and I find myself screaming ‘LEAVE THEM ALONE!’ 

The third thug turns to me and grabs my jaw with a meaty hand, peering at my face. “This is the one,” he growls, flashing a row of gold-capped teeth, “Leave the others and let‘s go.”

He shoves me roughly towards the door and I don’t fight. Grief has hollowed me out and left me frozen inside and I accept that this is just one more session of abuse in a long line of the same thing. I know what to do, what Nick always had to do in the brothels: zone out, close my eyes and drift away from my body into a soothing void that leaves us all empty in the end. Nick used to get wasted and lose himself in nothingness for hours and then snap out of it to find himself half-naked and smeared with someone else's cum, ten miles high. He’d have to count the client’s money and clean himself up during the come down, biting his lips and tongue to keep from crying.

But before I can lose myself this time, Frank starts howling at the sight of Gerard‘s unconscious body and one of Pete’s men punches him to shut him up. Gasping in pain Frank drops to his knees with his hands over his ears, swallowing screams or vomit. His huge eyes are terror-stricken and vacant and he’s shaking with tears on his face. He looks like a puppet with its strings cut, so helpless and lost that I shrug off the distracted guards long enough to hurry over there and speak to him one last time. There’s nothing I can say that will make things better for him, so I look him in his frightened eyes and say the only thing that might save his life: “...Don’t try to follow me...” Then the guards grab my arms and drag me outside into the cold, slamming the broken door behind us.

One of the thugs shoves me hard into the street and I trip in the gutter and fall, filthy ice-water soaking my jeans. That’s when I see them: hundreds of tiny signs that the end of this city is nigh. A thousand Catholic prayer cards are littering the road around us like snow, a thousand calming pictures of the Virgin Mary praying for sinners at the hours of their deaths. I recognize these cards and know what they mean. 

A squad of Hunter Black Hawks dropped an identical shower of prayer cards onto some of the streets in my hometown last summer less than a day before the bombs and napalm fell. Some of the Hunters are a bit superstitious I guess. These choppers must have come before dawn while I was still passed out.

As the guards drag me towards a black car waiting across the street they trample the prayer cards without a second glance and my heart skips as it hits me: they don’t know what the cards mean. Why would they when only a handful of survivors from other towns like me would know? This means that William might not know either. The Hunters have turned their backs on him and they want him to burn like everyone else. Ha! This is great, this is fucking wonderful! I won’t have to be apart from Nick much longer if it all ends tonight. I can finally sleep forever. A twinge of guilt reminds me that Frank and Gerard are going to die too but honestly I can’t bring myself to see it as a tragedy. It’s more like a release.  
When the Hunters destroy the city all the pain and suffering inside its walls - the violence and the hunger and the bleeding and the nightmares and the torture and rape - will stop forever and I am very okay with that. After all, everybody dies. 

The guards dump me on the back seat of the car and I lean back in my dirty clothes against the soft leather without a word. The warm seat hums under my head and the smell of aftershave and cigarettes fills the stuffy air as the bodyguards get in, slam the doors and crank up the sound system. As we glide through the streets I close my eyes and sink into memories of the past. I'm coming Nick, please wait for me, I’ll be there soon. Inside I’m crying because I miss him so much but on the outside I’m as quiet as a stone and numb to everything except Nick’s touch in my memory. I can hear his voice in my mind and feel him holding me tight as he whispers, “Don’t be scared, Ry. Please don‘t be scared.” I’m not scared. I’m going to be fine now. It’s all going to be okay.

***  
When we arrive at William’s fortress one of the guards pulls me out of the car and pushes me up the front steps before ringing the bell. I ignore him completely. Pete opens the door looking scruffy and wasted and walks me to the Waiting Room which reeks of fresh blood and sex. It‘s not hard to see why. Holy shit! Ray is here and miraculously still alive but he looks terrible: pinned to the couch with his arms wrapped in bloodied bandages and his eyes screwed shut as one of William’s whores straddles his hips naked and rides his dick, squeezing him with her insides as she sweats and moans with an ecstasy that Ray obviously isn’t sharing. I’m so shocked I stop feeling far away and distant from everything and crash back to reality so hard my stomach rattles.

The hooker finishes her rapey fun and Pete hands her a bag of pills which she gleefully accepts before stalking out of the room still naked, barely glancing at me on the way out. Ray curls up miserably on the couch in a foetal position, hiding his face with his blood-stained arms and I realise that I’ve dropped to my knees on the carpet and I‘m trembling all over. My pulse is pounding in my ears. What have they done to my friend?

Pete sits down near the fireplace with a bong and starts smoking, ignoring me, so I crawl over to Ray’s couch and gingerly touch his hair. He flinches and his hands move to cover his head, but then he raises his sad brown eyes and sees me instead of an enemy. “Ryan, you’re alive,“ he cries in relief. Then instantly his face crumples with anguish, “Oh god, Ry, I told them where you were, I’m so sorry. I didn‘t want to!”  
“It’s alright,” I hear myself answer, “We’re all sorry for something.” I think I’m trying to sound comforting but Ray stares at me like he can see something awful in my eyes. Maybe it’s our impending deaths. I don’t get the chance to ask him because right then William enters the room with a bottle of vodka and forces me to start drinking it at gun-point. I can’t let him shoot me in front of Ray so I slowly swallow it down, gagging on the bitter liquid as it burns my throat. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning and the alcohol goes straight to my head, melting my brain into mush. When I'm fairly drunk William leads me out of the waiting room and into his private quarters and I know I'm as good as dead.

Locking the door, the boss drags me by the wrist into a large white bathroom and turns on the shower before shoving me fully-clothed under the jet of scalding hot water. Gasping in shock, I cower in there for less than a minute before he pulls me out again and bends me over the side of the bathtub, ripping my wet pants down to my knees and forcing his hard dry cock into my ass. Despite the alcohol, agony rockets through my body and my mind floods with horror and noise as my eyes swim in tears and he thrusts into me repeatedly, crushing my ribs against the slippery bath. The room bucks and rolls like a sinking ship and a wave of nausea surfs up my throat and into my mouth, spraying the tiles in front of my face with bile and vodka. 

My last comforting visions of Nicholas are ripped away from me into oblivion and I can barely speak through my tears as William fucks me until my legs are shaking and my thighs are slippery with what feels like blood but I beg him to stop. Please, please STOP! 

He doesn’t of course, he just laughs, and I can’t do anything but weep as shower-water, sweat and puke drip down my face. I want to pass out but I can’t and only one thought gets me through this torture: that soon William will burn to ashes and be nothing but meaningless dust for evermore.

I throw up again after he pulls out of me and my heart thunders against my bruised ribcage as I shudder and retch over the bathtub. Bored or maybe disgusted, the boss shoves me back into the shower and leaves me trembling and crying under the gushing water. Soon after one of the bodyguards comes in with a gun and tells me strip. I do it, whimpering and shaking with fear, thinking he’s going to rape me too, but all he does is give me a towel and some dry clothes that are too big and tells me to get dressed. I feel so violated and sick that I can’t stop crying even at gunpoint. Is this how Nick felt when he was abused in the same place he worked to protect me? I can't believe he survived as long as he did.

When I’m dressed the guard picks me up like I weigh nothing and dumps me like a garbage sack back on the Waiting Room floor. Pete has vanished and I’m locked in there alone with Ray and left in silence. 

I can’t get up from where the thug dropped me and I can't form words or proper thoughts right now so I just lie there on the carpet as my ears crackle with static and cry my throat raw. I’m ruined, I’m diseased, I’m disgusting, I'm nothing and the bombs can’t come soon enough! Nothing can come soon enough to destroy this fucking pain!

At some point Ray must have picked me up because suddenly I’m lying on the couch and I can feel his large gentle arms wrapped around me in a hesitant hug. I can’t hug him back ad I don't want to talk. All I want and all I need right now is to see Nick lying beside me and William burning in Hell!

There’s a clock on the Waiting Room wall that says the sun will soon be setting. How long have I been here? Only a few hours left now until obliteration. Time is ticking away. I still can’t stop crying. Closing my eyes all I can see is blood and my body is weak with hate and poison. I don’t want to think about what just happened to me because I‘ll throw up again if I do.  
Ray mumbles something, trying to offer comfort, but how can I feel better after what William has done? I wish the bombs would come, why won’t they come now? Please, just let it end. Let it end...

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

Even after he calms down Frank won't stop clinging to me like a scared toddler and he’s crashing from hunger and exhaustion so I kiss and stroke his dirty hair for a while, trying to soothe him into letting go but he won't. Eventually I surrender and pull us both to our feet which makes my raging headache even worse.

Somehow I manage to get us both cleaned up using our leftover supplies and when I come to my senses a few hours later I find myself slumped inside some cardboard boxes in the corner of the garage with Frank fast asleep beside me. His broken hand is wrapped in a loose bandage with an ice-pack I must have frozen outside on the sub-zero street but it’s badly swollen and bruised and his knuckles are split down to the bone. I feel sick looking at it. There’s an ice-pack in my own hands as well, turning my fingers blue, and maybe I was using it on my head or something but I don‘t remember. The garage is dark as the daylight outside fades and the walls spin slowly in the twilight. I wish I could think straight but I guess concussed people don‘t have that luxury. Dry flakes of blood fall from my matted hair when I move but weirdly enough my crippling headache is gone for now. Man, I feel dizzy though. 

Sighing, I look down at Frankie and feel a strange mix of affection and irritation towards him. He’s shivering in his sleep and tears and tiredness have carved dark hollows under his eyes making him look like a witness to some horrible war. His perfect lips look dry and cracked and I worry that he's dehydrated. There are empty food packets nearby so we must have eaten something but I don’t know how much water we've drunk. The bottle in my coat is empty. There's a dirty bandage wound around his forehead too under his hair and I stare at it cluelessly for a while until I recall that he had a head injury last night…or yesterday…or something. I should probably wake him up. Reluctantly, I reach for his shoulder to shake him but stop when I notice some empty medical syringes lying in the box between us. That can’t be good. Nervously, I pick up the needles and try to read the labels printed on their sides. Morphine and sedatives. Shit, I hope these weren’t fatally high doses. No wonder my head doesn’t hurt!

Looking back at Frank I decide not to wake him yet and anyway I'm not even sure if I can while he has dope in his system. Ugh, I can't believe he smashed up his hand so bad. Lord knows I love the little weirdo but I also can't help resenting him a bit when he turns into a helpless self-injuring child. I know it's not his fault. He's just sick. But I'm forced to take care of and support him even though there is no one around to do the same thing for me and right now I'm cold and scared and thirsty and worried that I’m dying from a serious head injury and there is no one around to help me or medicate me or tell me that I’m going to be okay. Why is it always me who has to hold everyone together? Why do I have to be the leader, the grown-up, the person who baby-sits Ryan, tries to drag words out of Ray, has to stop Frank from freaking out when I’m fucking freaking out too?! 

It’s not fair and I’m too tired and frightened to handle it anymore. Everyone I know is either dead, sick or missing and all the goddamn sadness of our pathetic life has filled me to the brim with pain and misery. I miss the old world so much, I miss my friends and my parents and my little brother… I even miss MTV. I can’t remember what it was like to be safe and warm all the time or how it felt to not be afraid. 

“Gee?” Frank whispers my name so quietly that I can barely hear him and I answer ‘yes‘ several times before I realise he’s actually talking in his sleep. “Can‘t… sorry I couldn't…” he murmurs with a small frown, “...wait for me…?” Aw. He's so cute. My misplaced resentment and selfish anger melt away as I watch his twitching face and all I want to do is protect him and cuddle him and keep him safe forever. He deserves to be looked after just as much as I do. He’s all I’ve got and I'm all he has. Reaching over, I gently brush his dirty hair off his forehead and watch his eyelids flicker in the darkness as he dreams his way through some random conversation. I hope he’s okay in there.


	11. Slash and Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((TRIGGER WARNING!: SELF-HARM/SUICIDE ATTEMPT))

**GERARD'S POV**

Night invades the garage and the inky shadows cover the crusty pools of vomit and blood on the floor and hide our traumas in the dark. Frank sleeps deeply but I can’t nap for long without waking up shivering and aching, watching my breath frost in the beam of our only flashlight as I watch him dream. I can’t stop thinking over what he said about the voices he hears and the monsters he sees. How will I ever be able to find him the medical help that he needs in a world like this?

Shining my light at Frankie's face I frown when I notice a faint flush of red glowing under the tear-streaked dirt on his cheeks. Almost afraid to touch him, I smooth his hair aside to feel his forehead and flinch at the sudden heat under my fingers. He’s running a fever. Like somebody has flipped a switch in my brain I‘m instantly full of panic and wondering if this latest illness will be the one that ends his life.

Searching our supplies, I find a small bottle of penicillin that might keep his fever down and hurriedly shake him awake. When he opens his eyes they’re a little glazed over. Maybe it’s the sedatives I gave him earlier or maybe it’s something more sinister. “Is it time to go?” he asks, yawning and rubbing his neck.  
“Yeah, time to go.”

Pulling him to his feet, I give him a hug and he nuzzles his face against my neck, kissing my earlobe gently before stepping away. “We'll be okay,” I reassure him, stroking his arm and hating how fragile and tired he looks, “Take some of these pills, huh. We gotta stop that hand getting infected.” I hand him the penicillin and water and he averts his gaze while he takes the medicine but I catch a glimpse of fear in his eyes before he can hide it. “Stop staring at me, Gee, you‘re making me nervous.”  
“Sorry. How are you feeling?”  
“Sore. Kinda stupid for freaking out so much... and my hand kills.”  
“Right. What about the, uh, I mean can you hear anything bad right now? Or see anything freaky?”  
“No,” he answers quietly, turning away, “I gotta pee.”

While he’s gone I shove the leftover supplies - a handful of bandages, a can of cola, a water bottle and the rest of the medicine - back into my coat and when he comes back I take the coat off and wrap it around his shoulders before he can start pretending that he feels fine. He opens his mouth to say something but then shuts it again. “Use that icepack on your neck if you feel hot or something,” I say quietly. Without looking at me, he nods and starts chewing on his bottom lip. He looks anxious and incredibly miserable and I try not to stare at him too much as he slowly slides his arms into the coat sleeves, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off him. It would kill me if I lost him now. 

The icy streets outside are a wasteland of empty, bombed buildings, twisted steel and dirty bricks. The sky is coal-black and I can’t see any stars above us. Some of these places, like the old movie theater, would be way more comfortable squats than the garage but people have splashed crud and filth all over them and spray-painted black ‘X’s on the walls warning strangers about the Virus.

I pull Frank along by his uninjured hand, holding the flashlight in front of us and trying to get through the ugly streets as quickly as possible. It is bitterly cold and I’m trying not to shiver too much without my coat but my face and hands quickly turn numb. The dead streetlamps are dark and every alley and unknown corner seems to scream danger. As we walk my headache creeps back and starts throbbing louder with every step I take and my memory fractures so I lose all sense of direction. I accidentally lead us down a dead-end street packed with scorched dumpsters where citizens burn the corpses of their friends and relatives when the incinerator is full. Dozens of victims of bullets, sickness or starvation have been here, maybe hundreds, and in the silence of the night these places are eerie and upsetting. 

Even if he can't hear his “voices” right now Frank is edgy and scared and comes close to crying when we find a burnt-out trash can surrounded by ragged teddy bears and a cradle of melted candles and faded photographs. Smiling children, all dead now. “Why did this happen?” Frank whispers, his voice quivering as he stares at the photos and frozen toys, “Are we really so bad, Gee? Are human beings really so evil that we all needed to be punished like this, w-with everyone dying in the dark?” 

I can‘t think of an answer for him so I just stay quiet. He feels everything so deeply. Sniffing into his sleeve, he suddenly reaches out for one of the teddy bears like he’s going to stroke it or pick it up. “Don‘t touch those!” I snap through chattering teeth, yanking him away, “You don’t know what these kids died of.”

***  
Tonight the air has a sharp clarity and stillness that makes every distant drunken yell or cracking gunshot carry for miles around and echo off of every concrete wall. I’m constantly on edge and looking over our shoulders for possible attackers but the worst moment comes when we cross back into the Warehouse District. My mouth dries up and my blood freezes with terror as a chilling chorus of ghostly moans floats down the empty street towards us. I’ve heard this heart-wrenching sound before and I know what it is: it’s the sound of Virus victims dying. Groups of people who are suffering through the last stage of the disease are often herded together by masked Hunters into a secure building - maybe a factory or an old school - and locked inside and left there to die until the building is bombed into oblivion.

The second I hear this drone of wails and death-rattles my jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt and every muscle in my body tells me to turn around and run for my life. But the sounds of suffering are coming from the same direction that we need to go and I force myself to keep moving, dragging Frank with me as he starts walking slower and slower, whimpering with dread. In his short life he hasn’t just heard people he knows dying of the Virus, he has also seen it with his own eyes - something I’ve never really had to go through - and it petrifies him to a point that I can't even imagine. I’m grateful that he keeps moving at all as the groans of the diseased get louder and louder and I wonder how many folks are dying out here tonight? How many moms and dads? How many little kids?

We turn a corner not far from our old factory onto a crumbling sidewalk stained with piss and shit, and that’s when we see it: a long, low building that was once a Girl Scout Hut, now sealed shut with chains and razor wire and spray-painted with black ‘X‘s and bio-hazard signs. Last night this place was quiet enough to be ignored when we fled the factory bombing but tonight the moans of the damned are pouring out loud and clear on a stomach-churning cloud of human stench so foul that Frank doubles over and vomits right there on the pavement. When he’s done retching he starts to cry and I hug him tight while he weeps raw shuddering sobs, probably for his mom who died in a horrible place just like this one. My family were killed instantly in a precision bomb attack and I don't think I ever realised how lucky they were until now.

As far as I know, the Virus is spread by skin contact or bodily fluids but a lot of people think it's become airborne as well. Either way, we need to move on from here as soon as possible and fortunately Frank stops crying pretty quickly, hocking some snot onto the sidewalk as he wipes his eyes on his coat. For a moment I think he’s going to be alright, but then without a word he starts running away from the Virus-infested hut as fast as he can and I’m forced to chase him.

At least he runs in the direction we need to go in but it’s hard for me to keep up and he doesn’t stop until he reaches the charred remains of our factory where he staggers to a halt, panting, and turns back towards me in the dark. I’m not too far behind and when I see him staring back at me with his huge frightened eyes I collapse to my knees in the rubble and a choked flood of breathless sobs crash out of me like rain. Nick died here last night and I couldn't save him. My parents and brother were bombed into charred rubble just like this. There’s so much death in the world, there’s so much fucking death and so little life. How can anyone stand it?

I don’t know how long I sit there sobbing in the dark but I eventually pull myself together and look around for Frank. He’s sitting right next to me, drawing scribbles in the factory ashes with a charred stick. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, holding out our flashlight. Taking it from him, I nod wearily and he pulls the water bottle out of his coat. “You should drink something.” Nodding again, I take the bottle and rinse my mouth out before taking a long soothing drink. Shivering in the icy blackness I let the cold air chill me right through until I’m numb enough to push this useless pain aside and focus on what I’m trying to do tonight which is getting us the hell out of this city for good. Who cares what‘s on the other side anymore? “Come on Frankie. It's not far now.”

We take it slow the rest of the way and Frank tries to act like he’s fine but he’s too tired to keep pretending and he’s got a bad cold weighing on his chest that makes him cough and spit gunk at the pavement every few minutes. Worst of all though is his reaction to the dead frozen woman lying in the porch to Pete’s ‘exit’ shop. When our flashlight reveals her frosty, shrivelled face, he cries out in shock and then just keeps screaming like he can‘t stop until I clamp my hand over his mouth to stifle him. “Shhhh, shut up! We don’t know who else might be out here!” Struggling against my fingers and his fear, Frank shudders and crams his hands over his ears, breathing hard against my hand. “Are they back?” I whisper, “The voices?" Frank nods frantically, his eyes screwed shut. "Alright, well it‘s okay cos you don’t need to be scared of them while I‘m here, remember? I’ll keep you safe. They can’t hurt you or make you do anything you don’t want to while I’m around..."

Before he gets any worse, I pull him over to the tin-covered window where I spied on Pete last night and look through the same cracks again. I can’t see anything inside this time, only darkness but I figure that if any of William’s people were in there tonight they would have lights with them. They wouldn’t just sit around in the pitch dark. Frank pulls frantically at my restraining arms and my hand slips in the sweat on his face and falls away from his mouth. Worried that he‘ll start screaming again, I drag him over the homeless woman‘s corpse and push against the door which opens without resistance. Shoving Frank ahead of me into the old repair shop I slam the door closed behind us and try to catch my breath.

Frank sits down on the steel-plated floor and starts his hugging and rocking routine again, withdrawing into himself in search of safety I guess. At least he’s quiet. Sinking down beside him, I realize my fists are clenched with adrenaline and anger and I was very close to hitting him just now if he didn‘t shut up. God, I need to pull myself together!

With an effort I force my hands to relax and drop the flashlight which rolls over the floor and illuminates the trap-door entrance to the smuggling tunnel running out of the city… and two Hunters standing beside it. Fuck! I don’t even have time to scream before the armed Hunters are charging at us and we're as good as dead.

 

**RAY'S P.O.V.**

Tick…tick…tick…tick… Watching the clock on the Waiting Room wall helps keep me sane. Losing myself in the tiny movements of the second hand counting to sixty pushes all my ugly thoughts and fears aside and I don't have to remember what William Control and his lackeys have done to me.

At 1:16pm the Waiting Room door is unlocked and Ryan is dumped on the floor near my couch by a guard who quickly leaves and locks us in alone again. The poor kid is dressed in new clothes that are way too big for his fragile size and he's obviously traumatised. For a long time he just lies there where the guard dropped him, crying into the stained carpet, and he doesn’t even seem to notice when I pick him up and get him on the couch, terrified that I might hurt him even more than he already is. The pain from my own injuries goes away when I look at him and all I want to do is make him feel better, but I know I can't. A fresh bruise is rising on his wet face and his hair is damp and smells like soap and sweat. He’s crying too hard to speak and his eyes are unfocused and blind with trauma. This isn’t something I can just ‘fix’ and I know that now. Even if I killed William and Pete and everyone in this building it wouldn’t make Ryan whole again and it wouldn’t bring Nick back. 

The Waiting Room fire has gone out and it’s getting chilly in here so I lie down next to Ryan on the couch with a little distance between us and gave him a hesitant hug, scared that if I touch him I’ll trigger a flashback to whatever William just put him through. His pale skin looks hot and flushed and he’s trembling but I don’t have anything to clean him up with or any water for him to drink so I can't give him even a fraction of the care he obviously needs. Two tense hours pass by and I keep trying to talk to him but he doesn’t answer. Eventually his sobs quiet down and finally drop away into wet groans and sniffles and a bodyguard comes into the room at 4:29pm for two minutes to give us some water and a stale bran muffins for dinner. I manage to get Ryan to drink a few mouthfuls but he won’t touch the food.

The clock ticks on into early evening and I keep falling asleep and waking up again not knowing where I am. My wrists hurt and I feel sick and thirsty when the food and water are gone. Ryan’s sniffles fade into deep, quiet breathing and even though his back is towards me and I can’t see his face, I assume that he’s cried himself to sleep. I try whispering his name a few times and when he doesn’t answer, I fall back into a daze of watching the clock on the wall, not wanting to  
move or sit up in case I wake him. I am so fucking stupid. 

It takes me at least another minute of ‘tick…tick…ticks’ to notice the smell of fresh blood, and then I scramble off the couch and stare in horror at Ryan’s calm eyes and the blade in his hand and the blood spilling everywhere. He must have picked up a razor from the mess of junkie tools littering the carpet when he was first brought back from William’s room and has been holding onto it all this time. I can’t believe I didn’t notice!

“Ryan! What have you done?”  
“’S’okay, Ray,” he says drowsily, watching me with a dreamy look in his eyes as his blood soaks into the couch, “Doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.”  
“Yes it does,” I choke, pulling the stained blade from his left hand and throwing it across the room, “Of course this matters! Shit, Ryan, you can't do this...” Kneeling beside him, I pull up his blood-soaked right sleeve and reveal the deep parallel cuts he has raked into his flesh. Blood is spilling out in steady dark streams.

Looking desperately around for the med-kit that was used on my own wounds earlier today, I find it under the couch and hurriedly clean and close Ryan’s cuts with paper stitches, struggling to hold him still the entire time because he seems intent on letting himself bleed to death. It’s a good thing I’m much bigger and stronger than he is. “But it doesn’t matter anymore!” he protests in a shaky voice, “It‘s all over now, Ray, don't you see? I don’t want to wait any longer for the Hunters to come. It’s taking too long and I can't do it. Please just let me go!”  
“No!” I shout at him, unleashing so much anger and fear into that one word that he goes quiet with surprise. “I don’t want to let you go, Ryan. I wish you‘d understand that.” Seizing his blood-stained wrist, I hold it tightly in my hands and apply pressure to stop him struggling as well as stop the last of the bleeding. He howls with pain or fury but I don’t care as long as I can save his life. Nick wouldn’t have wanted this kind of end for him if there was even a small chance of things getting better. I might not know much but I do know that.

Naturally, this is the moment when the Waiting Room door swings open and William, his Gothic whore, and four bodyguards walk in dressed in black coats. William is busy barking orders into a cell phone and it takes him a moment to register what’s going on. Raising a black eyebrow at the mess of Ryan’s blood, the boss motions to the guards who pair off and walk over to us. Two of them force me to my feet while the others drag Ryan off the couch and hold him up in front of William who smirks coldly and ruffles his hair. “We've had no contact for three days and it's just not good enough!” he says into the cell phone, “….I see……well fine then. See you soon.” Snapping the phone shut he looks at Ryan with annoyance and grabs the kid’s injured wrist, making him moan with pain. “Well aren’t you a brave little soldier, Ryan. But this isn’t enough to set you free.”

Ryan hangs his head in despair, and William spreads his arms in a wide, sweeping gesture that takes in the whole room. “It's time to leave, people,” he announces, “We‘re moving out!” Turning sharply, he takes his whore by the hand and they step out of the room while his guards march Ryan and I along not far behind. Ryan is stumbling a lot, dazed and weak, and I want to help him, heal him, say how sorry I am for yelling at him back at the factory, but I don’t think I’ll have the chance now. This must be it: time for our execution. Time for us both to die.

Outside the weather is depressing and ball-shrivellingly cold like it is every night here. A black limousine is parked in the street and Pete is slouched in the driver’s seat smoking a roll-up through the open window. When he sees William he jumps out and opens one of the passenger doors for his boss and William lets the whore get in first before deliberately knocking the cigarette from Pete’s hand and getting in himself. Pete scowls angrily and slams the limo door shut as soon as all of us are inside. 

The interior of the limo is huge and lit with sour orange lights. The windows are tinted black so I can’t see a thing outside and once Pete starts the engine and we’re moving my heart starts pounding so loud in my ears I can’t hear myself think. I’ve been seated next to Ryan on a long leather seat with a guard on either side of us while William and his whore sit opposite with the other two goons. She looks bored and starts playing with the sleeve of her jacket, ignoring my seething hatred while William makes himself a drink from the mini bar. I glance worriedly at Ryan who is slumped back in his seat with his eyes half-closed as blood dries on his fingers and shirt. It’s horrific to see him like this but at least he might not be awake and terrified when we die - he’ll be numb and asleep.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask loudly and one of the guards moves to hit me but the boss raises a hand for him to stop. “That's not your concern,” he says lazily, stirring his drink, “But just know this: you and Ryan are coming with us for one reason and one reason only and that is to be our entertainment. You’re going to pleasure me and my lady friend with whatever we want from you, whether it be blood, sex, or your extremely painful deaths.” Smirking evilly, he watches my expression change with piercing eyes and I‘m sure hate is written all over my face. “Here,” he commands sternly, passing me a can of energy drink from the bar, “Make Ryan drink this. I want him awake for the journey.”


	12. Trust Me

**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

The Hunters pin me to the ground and in seconds there's a blindfold over my eyes and a gag of thick, rough material stuffed into my mouth and sealed there with tape. A heavy gun barrel digs into my scalp and my hands are tied behind my back with wire that is so tight it bites into my wrists. For a few foolish seconds I struggle against their superior strength and one of them rewards me with a brutal kick to the gut that slams the breath out of my body and leaves me fighting for air.

Gasping and terrified, I can’t believe I've come this far just to die in the hands of Hunters now... and where is Frank? I cant see a thing and I can’t hear his voice. Boot-steps vibrate through the floor under my cheek and I hear the screech of steel grating on steel and the sharp snap of a lock or some handcuffs closing. Still trying to catch my breath, I attempt to sit up and something heavy slams into the side of my head, painting the darkness in my eyes with white stars. Groaning with pain, I roll helplessly on the ground, drifting in and out of consciousness and sweating bullets in the frozen air. I feel nauseous and faint and can’t stop coughing into the suffocating gag. Terror grips my throat like a vice and squeezes and tears soak through my blindfold, making it heavy on my skin. A warm wetness seeps through my jeans and a flash of shame breaks through my fear and panic.

“Hey, this one’s wet himself,” a muffled male voice snickers from somewhere above me.  
“Serves him right,” the other Hunter laughs from across the room.  
“Come on, Jackson,” says the first guy, “Let’s get this done.”  
Footsteps stomp towards me and a large hand grabs my hair and yanks my head up. “Scream and you’re dead,” the one called Jackson’s voice spits as the gag is peeled away and my mouth is freed.  
“Do you work for the criminal known as William Control?” Hunter One asks through his helmet's mouthpiece as his colleague Jackson pulls painfully on my hair. Too scared to speak, I shake my head. “Yeah right,” he mutters. A burst of static from a radio walkie-talkie sounds in the darkness but both Hunters ignore it. “What are you doing here then?” Jackson barks, “Do you know about tonight? Are you trying to break out?”  
“No, I…w-we don’t work for anyone!” I stammer, my voice a pathetic squeak of fear, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  
“Like hell you don’t,” Hunter One spits, “Does your boss know anything about tonight?”  
“What? Tonight? What about tonight? I don’t know…”  
“Do you know about the tunnel leading out of here?”  
“Well yes b-but-”  
“Is Control coming to the tunnel tonight?”  
“I don’t know!”  
The cold gun barrel is pressed against my forehead. “Tell me or I’ll BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!”  
“I DON’T KNOW! I DON‘T KNOW!”  
The gun cocks ready to fire and I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold, trembling with terror.

“Maybe he really doesn’t know,“ Jackson says, letting go of my hair, “I mean look at him, he’s skinny, beat-up, filthy. Must be a fucking junkie or something. Why would the boss share information with him?”  
“You might be right,” Hunter One grunts reluctantly, “Control would probably be here himself if he knew anything.” For a few more seconds the gun presses into my head and I’m convinced they’re going to shoot me for not saying what they want to hear, but then the gun falls away and I try not to pass out, hyperventilating with fear as my body shakes. “How long until we have to leave?” Hunter One asks. “Thirty-five minutes,” Jackson’s voice answers, “Annihilation is still scheduled for 20:00 hours.”  
“Well then, shall we have some fun with these two before we go?”

Unbearably dizzy, I let my head sink back onto the floor and press my cheek against the cold dusty steel as sweat runs down my neck and the gag is returned to my mouth. The air rings for a while with the sound of heavy objects being moved around and then I hear the sudden smack of a gloved hand hitting skin and my heart leaps into my throat. “Oh great,” Jackson mutters, “That one pissed his pants and this one won’t wake up.” They’re hitting Frank, they‘re hurting him. “Frankie!” I blurt into the gag without thinking and I get another kick in the ribs for my trouble. This time the pain is unbelievable and I can’t take a breath in so long I start blacking out. Darkness swirls thickly in my brain and I bite down on my tongue to stay awake, listening desperately to what’s going on around me until I hear the sound of Frank coughing and breathing. He’s still alive. I flinch at the sound of another slap, probably on his face, and then more boot-steps as Hunter One goes over to join his comrade. “Here,” he says, “Let me show you how it’s done…”

“ARGGHHHHHH!” Frank’s tortured scream is so loud and sudden that my whole body jumps and my teeth chomp into my tongue, filling my mouth with blood. “ARRGHHH! STOP!” he hollers, his voice raw with pain and I want to claw the blindfold off my face to see what‘s going on but my hands are still tied behind me. “Leave him alone!” I yell at the Hunters, my voice muffled into grunts of nonsense by the gag as I swallow my own blood. This time I don’t care if I get kicked.

“Well it sounds like we’ve got a hero over here,” Hunter One snorts, marching back over and grabbing my arm to haul me up onto my knees. “Well hero, why don’t you watch what we’re about to do to your boyfriend.”  
Still holding my arm, he pulls the blindfold up into my hair and gives me back my sight. For a second I’m blinded by the glare of the fluorescent lanterns they’ve set up around the shop but then my vision clears and I see Frank lying on the floor across the room. The masked Hunter known as Jackson is standing over him aiming a gun at his head and even though he isn’t tied up or blindfolded the Hunters have handcuffed one of his wrists to the leg of a heavy-looking tool bench. His other hand - the injured one - is stretched away from his body and he’s staring at it with wide agonized eyes, panting with pain. “Frank!” I say again, my voice still blocked by the gag, and Hunter One immediately jabs his gun against my head in warning but Frank still heard me and he looks up, his flooded eyes begging me for help.

Tugging uselessly at the wire binding my hands together, I start to speak again but the gun aimed at my head cocks and I stop. “Good choice,” Hunter One says, and he crouches down on the floor to look at me. His face is completely masked by his shiny black helmet and it’s like staring into a dark mirror. Chills skitter down my spine as I look at where his eyes should be. “If you speak again without my permission,” he growls, “I will put a bullet in you.”

Standing up, he waves his gun between Frank and I with his finger on the trigger. “We know you two are connected to William Control because you came here looking for his escape tunnel but by the looks of you I don’t think you rank too highly on his food-chain. So what are you?” he asks, pointing the gun at me, “Rent boys? Runners? I’m thinking plain old junkies, am I right?” 

I shake my head but he ignores me and turns his attention to Frank. “I wonder what kind of twisted, nasty things you two would do to get a fix,” he muses darkly, “How many dicks have you sucked, kid? How many beatings would you take for just one more hit of the good shit?”  
Shivering in silence, Frank screws his eyes shut and shakes his head and I can almost hear his mysterious voices snapping at him in his mind, making all of this even worse for him.

Hunter One makes sure I’m watching and then raises one of his booted feet and stamps down hard on Frank’s injured hand, drawing another deafening scream from him that makes my blood run cold as my eyes flood with tears. Rocking his boot cruelly over Frank’s bloodied fingers, the Hunter drags a few more cries of agony from him and I can’t watch anymore but Jackson comes over and grabs the back of my neck to keep my face turned towards the action. “Close your eyes and you die,” he hisses.  
“Make a move and you die,” Hunter One adds, finally releasing Frank’s hand from under his weight. Pale as death and gagging on broken sobs, Frank cradles his shattered hand against his chest and curls up in a ball, trembling and groaning with pain. Every impulse in my body wants to rush over there and help him but if I move I‘m dead and Frank will have to go through this horror alone.

Prowling around the shop, Hunter One scans the old tool benches and rusty car parts for suitable objects of torture and meanwhile I stare at Frank’s quivering body wishing he would look at me again so we could at least share some kind of comforting connection through our eyes but he’s hiding his face and weeping in hoarse animal groans as blood trickles from his broken hand and I know that I’m losing him. I don’t know how much more of this he can take. 

Hunter One finally finds something he likes - a metal pipe about half a meter long - and kicks poor Frank savagely in the legs and back until he’s forced to roll over and reveal his face. Then the Hunter kneels down quick as lightning and grabs Frank’s jaw, forcing him to look upwards. “How many guys have you sucked off, little Frankie?” he asks in a mocking voice dripping with malice, “How many strangers have fucked you in the ass, pretty boy?” He spits every word like a bullet and Frank flinches at each syllable. I feel sick to my stomach and a wave of crushing nausea rolls up through my aching body and floods my mouth with vomit but I can’t spit it out because the gag is in the way. Choking on stomach acids, I feel the moist burn of puke filling my nostrils, making my eyes stream with tears and I can’t swallow properly or spit it out. With vomit flooding my nose I can’t breathe and I cough helplessly inside my chest as my tongue swims in fluid. Pressure builds up in my sinuses and my lungs scream for oxygen but I can‘t get any. My vision starts getting dark at the edges and vomit bubbles down towards my lungs like water in a drowning victim as I collapse backwards against Jackson’s legs.

“- AT HIM! LOOK AT HIM, HE’S CHOKING!” Frank’s panicked voice spins in and out of the dark void in my head and I feel like I’m falling as a warm, white light starts to swallow the darkness in my vision. Then hard ground hits my arm and the side of my face and the gag is torn from my mouth, parting my lips to allow a mouthful of sick to pour out, but the rest of it, clogging up my throat and nose, is still lodged there and there’s no air left in my lungs to cough it back up. I still can’t breathe and everything is fading to white.

THUMP! THUMP! Painful punches rain down on my back as I’m rolled onto my stomach and at last gravity and force eject the mess from my airways, splattering the concrete under my face with gloop and finally letting me gasp some air. My eyes are full of tears and shadows and my head is spinning so fast I can’t feel the ground underneath me as my hands and legs tingle with oxygen-starved blood. Heaving another quivering breath, I cough up another mouthful of crud and prop myself up on trembling arms - only now realising that my hands have been cut free - until another kick from a Hunter‘s boot slams me down on my back again and something plastic is shoved into my shaking hands. “Here,” a voice barks, “Drink!” It’s a bottle. “Drink it!” Jackson orders. It could be motor oil or bleach! “DRINK!”

Afraid of another beating, I lift the bottle to my lips with numb, difficult fingers and take a sip.  
It’s just water and it soothes my burning throat as I gulp it down and watch the room come back to life around me. My head is pounding like a drum and needles of pain are stabbing me in the ribs and the backs of my eyes. I just want this to be over. Part of me doesn‘t want to live through anymore pain because what’s the point if I’m going to die tonight anyway? What‘s the fucking point? Raising my watering eyes, I see a gun aimed at my forehead and imagine it firing. BANG. Done. 

Snatching the water back, Jackson throws it aside and bends down to grab the front of my shirt, pulling me to my feet only to shove me brutally towards Frank a half-second later where I fall to my knees beside him. “Are you okay?” he gasps, looking at me with such heartbreaking concern that it makes me burst into tears. “He’s fine,” Jackson snaps, “Now stop talking or I’ll shoot him in an artery and let him bleed to death. Is that what you want?” Frank frantically shakes his head and I fight the urge to throw my arms around him. “Good,” Hunter One says, holding out the metal pipe towards Frank, “Now take this and fuck him with it.”

“W-What?” Frank whispers, his eyes wide.  
“I said FUCK HIM WITH THIS FUCKING PIPE, DUMBASS! Right here, right now.” The words hang darkly in the air and a quivering, numb helplessness freezes me as the world drops out from under my legs and I sink into some kind of shock. Frank shakes his head and his eyes drown in panic as he whispers “No,” and Hunter One hits him savagely on the shoulder with the pipe. “I told you to do something! Now do it! Right now!” Breathing hard through fresh pain, Frank gazes steadily at the floor and doesn’t move. “I said NOW!” Hunter One bellows, slamming the pipe down again on Frankie’s arm with an audible CRACK that makes him yelp and snaps me back to my senses with a jolt of sympathy. “Take off his pants or we’ll beat you to death instead!” Jackson snarls. But Frank just sits there cradling his bleeding hand and shaking his head, gulping back tears. I know he’s not going to hurt me. He’d rather die than put me through any kind of pain. He’d rather let them kill him....

Hunter One raises the pipe again, this time aiming his swing at Frankie’s beautiful face and I force myself to move and grab his arm with a cold, shaking hand. I have to make Frank understand that it’s alright, that it won’t be rape if it’ll save his life, but his sad eyes are drained of all hope now and he looks totally resigned to his fate. We’ll both die tonight but Frank isn’t going to make things any worse for me before that happens. He can‘t hurt me, he won't, and he’s prepared to let these bastards kill him instead!

“Fine,” Hunter One snarls, preparing to swing, and I give Frank’s arm a last, desperate squeeze as tears soak my face. I can‘t believe I have to let him go. God, not like this – please no! I love him more than anything and here at the end I don't think I've ever loved anyone else. Gazing back at me with agonised affection, he gives me a sad half-smile and for a moment I see a flash of the old Frankie in there, the guy with all the energy and joy he had before the Virus took his family away. “No!” I cry at the last second as Hunter One smashes the pipe down.

***  
**RAY'S P.O.V.**

The limo ride passes in a blur as my mind conjures up gruesome visions of the tortures William has in store for me and Ryan and I feel nauseous even before I drink the glasses of vodka he keeps forcing on me, swallowing them robotically. It’s the same way he got Ryan drunk before abusing him.

The car drives so smooth it doesn’t feel like we're moving at all but after my third glass of mind-numbing booze Pete opens the doors and I’m pushed out onto a dark nothing street in the middle of a nowhere district. The alcohol churns in my empty stomach and I belch loudly, already wasted. It’s freezing cold out here and the sidewalk is rocking gently back and forth under my feet. I think the guard holding onto my arms is the only reason I‘m still standing. William says something but I don’t listen because I’m too busy staring at Ryan in the dimness, trying to make out his face. He nearly passed out in the car but every time he shut his eyes the whore bitch kicked him with her pointed boots until he woke up. Now his skinny silhouette is shivering tiredly against the chest of a bodyguard who has a burly arm locked around his neck to keep him still. I feel so damn guilty.

The icy wind blows a gale around us and I stumble in the guards’ grip as he starts walking me across the street, losing all sense of balance as dizziness pours through me like water. We're all marching in silence with William leading the way towards an old building on the other side of the road. There’s a shadow in the doorway that looks like a dead body, but it shivers in a haze of alcohol before I can tell if it’s real or not. My guard shoves me forwards as William opens the door, light spills out, he marches inside, and we come face to face with two armed Hunters!

For one stunned second there is silence as both sides freeze in surprise and I notice blearily that Gerard and Frank are here too and they look half-dead. Then I’m shoved aside and hit the ground, forgotten by my guard as revolvers and pistols are drawn and everyone opens fire on each other, cracking the room up with explosions. Tasting pavement, all I can do is lie there with my hands over my head as death and carnage rain gorily down all around me and I watch the bodies drop.

William’s whore is shot first because unbelievably she moves in front of her lover to shield him and takes two fatal bullets in her neck and chest which spin her body around and paint the walls with her blood. Then a bodyguard gets the top of his skull blown off and the Hunters duck behind an old tool bench while everyone else dives for cover on either side of the doorway. Bullets hammer the building and blood drips down the walls. The weapons fire is so loud I can feel the vibrations in my chest through the ground. Another guard goes down right next to me with a hole in his neck and a fountain of his blood splashes my face as he dies. Howls of pain and rage fill the air and the dead weight of another body crashes onto my legs, pinning me to the floor. Wiping blood from my eyes, I stare in horror as one of the Hunter’s helmets shatters in an explosion of brains and broken glass and he crumples down dead, narrowly missing Gerard who is lying frozen beside Frank in a pool of blood. I can't see Ryan anywhere! Where is he?!

Somewhere behind me Pete's voice screams in pain and then the battle is down to just two shooters and suddenly the remaining Hunter stops firing, apparently out of ammo. There’s a moment of tense quiet broken by the loud ringing in my ears, and then William’s shoes appear in front of my face as he storms over to where the Hunter is hiding, gun raised, and shoves the tool bench aside. Only the Hunter isn’t out of ammo after all and he whips a loaded pistol up towards William‘s stunned face. They fire at the same time and blow each other’s brains out and as quickly as it started the massacre is over.

“H-Holy shit,” I gasp, gulping death-soaked air as the smoke clears and the dust settles. My heart is busting out of my chest and I’m trembling all over as I crawl out from under the corpses, gagging with horror. What the fucking fuck?! 

Everyone who had a gun is now lying dead all around me: William, his whore, the four guards, both Hunters and Pete all lifeless and bloody on the ground, a morgue of sightless eyes, shattered skulls and bullet-wounds floating in a sea of blood and bone fragments. Retching in revulsion, I’m suddenly soaked in sweat and my guts cramp as I barf a gallon of vodka onto the filthy floor. 

“Ray!”  
“H-Help! Somebody help me!”  
It’s Ryan’s voice first, then Gerard‘s and the sounds are muffled by my damaged hearing. Gritting my teeth I spit out the last of my stomach contents and start crawling towards Gerard and Frank because they’re the only ones I can see and they both look like hell. “Ryan?” I croak hoarsely, “Come out where I can see you!”

Who knows what the Hunters were doing to my friends before we got here but Frank is unconscious and bleeding and Gerard is so traumatised that at first he can’t do much except sob Frank’s name over and over again like a broken record. Gently, I tell him to stop and he falls silent, reaching for Frank’s face with a shaking hand but then pulling it back like he’s afraid to touch him. “Frank?” I say loudly, “Can you hear me, Frankie? Fuck, Gerard what did they do?”  
“They w-wanted to kill him,” Gerard sobs in a broken voice, “They hit him, his f-face and his arm...s-so hard! Is he gonna die?”  
“I hope not.” Biting my lip, I roll Frank’s limp body onto its side and check his pulse and breathing. He’s still alive, for now, but the left side of his face is gashed open along his cheekbone and swollen with blood, bruising and fractures. Carefully peeling off his bloodstained coat I bundle it up and put it under his head then stagger outside to the limo and grab a bottle of whiskey from the mini bar. Stumbling back, I take off my sweater, clenching my jaw to stop my teeth chattering, and rip off a long strip of cloth, splashing it with alcohol and pressing it firmly against the deep bleeding wound under Frank’s eye. When I touch him he groans loudly in his sleep which I hope is a good sign. Ryan!” I call again, “Are you okay?”

“Fuck no,” Ryan mumbles, crawling out from behind some old boxes. I don’t think he’s been shot but his wrist is bleeding again, soaking through the hurried bandage I put on it earlier and his eyes are barely open. “Definitely not okay,” he says weakly, collapsing against my shoulder, “This shit’s not okay...”  
“Tell me about it,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I try and keep it together. 

“Are they all dead?” Gerard rasps, looking with haunted eyes at the corpses all around us. “Yeah, all dead,” I assure him, rubbing Ryan’s back as the skinny kid clings to me half-conscious, “They can’t hurt you now.”  
“Can’t hurt us,” Gerard repeats robotically, wiping his face with his sleeve. He sounds like he’s in shock which I know can be way more dangerous than fear and I don't know how to snap him out of it. I'm still woozy from all that vodka and I can't think straight. Suddenly in my swimming vision I notice Frank’s battered eyelids flickering open for a second. But only a second. “Frank? Hey buddy, open your eyes again.”  
“S’cold…” Frank mumbles woozily, dribbling bloody saliva onto the floor, “...They left the bears…”  
“Bears?” I ask in confusion.  
“The teddy bears,” Gerard whispers unsteadily, “I wouldn’t let him touch them.”  
“Oh…kay. Well, er, try and keep Frank talking, alright? I need you to keep him awake for me while I get us some help.” 

Glancing with a sick stomach at the dead Hunters, I try to guess where they would’ve parked their car tonight. We need clean water and medical supplies ASAP and for all I know Frank is taking his dying breaths right now.  
“Gerard, where did the Hunters come from? Did they have a car?”  
“They were just...here,” Gerard answers in a small voice as he stares hollowly at Frank, “I think they came through the tunnel.”  
“Tunnel? What tunnel?”  
Gerard eyes suddenly go as wide and round as planets and his next words tumble out in a big rush, “OH SHIT THE TUNNEL! We’ve gotta go Ray! We’ve gotta go right now! The Hunters are gonna bomb Hell, the city, it‘s all gonna go up! We have to use the tunnel NOW!”  
“Hang on, what?” I’m too tired and drunk and confused to understand what he’s saying, “What fucking tunnel?!”

Gerard looks at me, then at Frank, then bursts into tears and I am this fucking close to slapping him when two men, strangers, burst into the repair shop from outside. They are dressed in camouflaged army fatigues and boots and have black balaclavas covering their faces but from their smallish build and scared posture they don't seem like real soldiers. “What the fuck happened in here?” one of them exclaims, skidding to a halt in the gore and staring at us through the eyeholes in his mask. He has a strange rough accent that sounds Irish or maybe Welsh. I suck at accents. “Who cares as long as we can get out?” his companion - American - pants, striding over to us, “Are you Friendlies?”  
“I...what?” I stammer.  
“ARE YOU FRIENDLIES?” he repeats urgently, looking us up and down for signs of threat.  
“For Christ’s sake, don't talk like that,” the other man scolds, “No one can bloody understand you. Besides, look at the state of them, they’re not dangerous.”  
“So what do we do?” the American asks, bouncing up and down nervously.  
“Well we can’t just leave them here can we!” 

Nervously checking his watch, the first guy takes off a backpack he’s wearing and starts unzipping it while Gerard, Ryan and I just sit there too dazed and confused to move. “James, come on!” the American yells, “We’ve only got ten minutes!”  
“Then we‘d better get a move on,” James says. “Hi,” he adds gently, kneeling down near me with his hands held open in a gesture of peace, “So yeah my name is James and that’s Brendon. Now listen, we're not going to hurt you. We’re on your side, we’re against the Hunters, and we can help you and your friends get out of here but we‘ve got to move fast.”  
“What?” I stammer.  
“We‘re from the outside,” James explains, rapidly pulling bandages and various other medical supplies out of his bag, "Survivors, like you yeah? We break into cities and what have you through tunnels like this one. Every town’s got a way in if you know where to look, and we get healthy people out. Look, I‘m a medic, see? I can help you.”  
“Tunnels like what one?!” I shout in exasperation as Ryan passes out in my arms.  
“Like this one,” Brendon sighs, going straight over to a hatch in the floor and hauling it open to reveal a dark space underneath.  
“We’re really running out of time now,” James tells me, “So please let me help your friends, and let me do it now.”

***  
So this is it. This is how we finally escape the city and I‘m too out of it to even feel relieved. James has a portable medical scanner that can test sweat or blood in seconds for the Virus, and he quickly makes sure we’re all negative before taping some quick dressings over Frank and Ryan’s wounds and injecting Frank with what he says is morphine. Neither he nor Brendon are especially tall or heavyset but they manage to take most of the weight of the semi-conscious Frank and Ryan and get us all into the underground concrete tunnel. 

Brendon closes the metal trapdoor behind us, a lit flashlight in his mouth, and then we're fleeing for our lives down the damp, claustrophobic passage. I have to stop to puke a few times, bringing up nothing but green bitter acids, and pretty soon loud bomb explosions start rocking the earth above our heads. The Hunters are destroying the whole city, just like Gerard said. I have no idea if we’re going to make it out alive but at least William and Pete are dead now and burning, just like I wanted.

Somehow the underground tunnel holds up under the barrage of bombs from above and at last we reach its slippery end and stagger out into a dark, muddy ditch running alongside an empty highway beyond the city gates. I’m still a little drunk and now I’m half-dead from exhaustion too. Falling to my hands and knees in the muck I don’t have the energy left to take another step and I can only trust that James and Brendon will take care of us out here in the dark and dying world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--------------- So, new characters! I hope you'll like them. There will be another one in the next chapter too, plus more hurt-comfort Frerard stuff coming up. Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment if you like or don't like something. xx ----------------


	13. Wrecked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----------- (This is quite a long chapter, hope it was worth the wait! Thanks for reading, I'll update again soon. xx) ------------------

**BRENDON'S P.O.V.**

Patrick’s excitable voice crackles out of James's walkie-talkie and pulls our attention away from the hanging corpse before us. “There’s a fleet of aircraft bearing down on the city guys and it looks like Bombers! Get out of there NOW!” His frantic warning dissolves into a burst of static and then goes completely silent. We’ve lost contact. It’s time to run again. 

James looks at me across the empty apartment and I see a hundred other cities burning in his eyes as he whispers, “Shit.” Fear tingles down my spine and I rush over to the shattered window and stare out at the dead streets below us. We’re three floors up, too far to jump without risking injury and then we'd be completely fucked. As opposed to mostly fucked I guess. Over the moaning wind I can hear the faint roar of approaching aircraft. A Hunter Annihilation Fleet is on its way with enough firepower to turn this whole city into a smoking crater. James grabs my shoulder and together we run for the door. 

We were here to deliver medical supplies to one of our contacts but when we got to his apartment we found him dead. He'd hung himself, the douche, and now it takes us nearly two precious minutes just to get out of the building. By then the sound of incoming planes is getting louder. Panting clouds of steam into the frozen air, James stops in the middle of the road and looks around, calculating possible escape routes in his head. “Which way?” I hiss anxiously, my voice echoing off burnt trash and dirty sidewalks.  
“I dunno,” James mutters with a shake of his head. I can hear genuine panic in his voice and sweat prickles my face under my balaclava mask, “We’re too far from the route we used to get in.”  
“So think of something else!”  
“I’m trying! Lemme think…right, we can use the tunnel under the car shop near-”  
“The smuggling tunnel? There could be a dozen ex-cons protecting that thing! Are you nuts?”  
“It's the only exit we can reach in time, Bren, come on!”

***  
A year ago today the town I grew up in was already dying of the Virus. The streets ran with blood and martial law was declared after all the governing officials abandoned us and only a patrol of mysterious soldiers who called themselves Hunters held the chaos in check. My entire family died of the disease but for some reason I wasn’t infected and I hated myself for surviving when they didn't. Soon afterwards the President disappeared and all the TV networks, internet routers and radio stations I’d grown up with went silent. The wider world disappeared forever and I had never felt more alone. Traffic jammed up the roads out of town and then never moved again because all the drivers died. The power went out, the shops and markets were robbed bare and I went from being a normal college kid with friends and Nikes and a Youtube channel to the homeless survivor of a genuine apocalypse. 

Society nationwide crumbled, law and order dissolved into nothing, and humanity was shoved to the brink of extinction. Entire cities burned and people died in agony with no doctors left to ease their pain. The incinerators never stopped burning, there were so many dead, and everyone I knew and loved was gone. I drifted from place to place, sleeping rough on beaches and in gutters, and the only people I came into contact with always wanted to kill me for my shoes or the little food I had scrounged. 

I spent my life hiding in dumpsters and got beaten up every night by people even more desperate than me. I drank stolen liquor and sold my body for food until I was dead inside but at night the ghosts of the old world still came to haunt me in my sleep. I couldn‘t stand to stay breathing and I tried OD'ing on pills but misjudged the dose and woke up an hour or two later covered in my own vomit with a Hunter telling me to get up and move along. 

The whole world was ending and I didn‘t want to be part of it anymore so I got drunk one last time and clumsily slashed my wrists before climbing to the roof of the tallest building I could find. I would have jumped if a sympathetic stranger hadn’t seen me up there, stopped me and saved my life. I screamed at him to leave me alone and cried myself blind when he wouldn’t give up on me but he got me through the worst of it and sobered me up, then took me away from that particular doomed town forever. He said he was a paramedic and his name was James. That was six months ago. I’ve been travelling with him and his nephew Patrick ever since. 

***  
Back to tonight and James and I are stuck inside another city that’s about to go kablooey. The seconds count down with every thud of our boots on the pavement and each icy breath stabs my lungs like a knife as I run faster and faster. I reach the old repair shop first and before my eyes can register the dead folk hanging out of the doorway I’m skidding to a halt in a pool of blood, unable to believe what I’m seeing. There are so many bodies and two of them are Hunters! They must have been fighting over the escape tunnel. Jesus!

James runs in right behind me and slips in the clotting pool of blood, almost falling over. “What the fuck happened in here?” he cries.  
“Who cares as long as we can still get out,” I pant and that’s when I see the four survivors of this bloodbath crouched together on the floor not far from the pretty obvious tunnel entrance. They’re unarmed and injured and obviously terrified and only two of them are even conscious. These are exactly the kind of folk we’re always trying to help so James insists we take them with us. And we do.

The bombs drop moments after we enter this glorified sewer of an escape tunnel and explosions obliterate the city in a deafening roar as we stagger towards safety. I’m carrying an unconscious guy about my age over my shoulder firefighter-style and dragging along an older dude with wild curly hair and a beard by his blood-stained shirt. Sweat glues my mask to my face and runs into my eyes and I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. The tunnel roof cracks and bleeds dirt onto our heads and the smoky air is hotter than anything I’ve ever known but somehow we make it through in one piece and after nearly two miles we finally emerge coughing out the other side near the highway. I sink to my knees in the mud, exhausted, and drop the guy I'm carrying beside me to check he‘s still breathing. He’s as thin as a stick and kind of cute under all the dirt and damage. Poor kid. 

We’re out of the city but not out of the woods yet. Missiles and napalm were used here tonight and the resulting flames are still burning red-hot sixty feet into the air and lighting up the whole area. If the Hunters bother to look in our direction we will be discovered and most likely blasted to bits. 

The curly-haired guy - Ray I think he said - pulls the skinny kid away from me and sits cradling his limp body in the mud. I’m coughing myself stupid on the clouds of ash raining down on us like snow so I grab the water bottle from my old army jacket and take a drink before passing it to Ray. He can barely hold the bottle and looks like he’s going to pass out or something but I don’t know how to help him without asking James what to do. Mostly I just want Patrick to get here with the RV already and pick us up but he's nowhere to be seen.

Buzzing and sweaty with adrenaline, I crawl back to the tunnel exit where James is kneeling with a micro-flashlight between his teeth holding an oxygen mask over the mouth of the most badly-hurt survivor we rescued: a short dark-haired guy with fresh blood covering his face. His closed eyes are bruised black under all the gore and if he’s not dead already then he looks very close to it. James is doing the best he can to help but I can tell that under his calm exterior he's really tense and upset, but not as upset as the fourth survivor who is sitting with his head in his blood-stained hands shaking while the city burns behind us. 

James is too busy to look at me but he knows what I want. “The walkie-talkie’s in my bag,” he says, pressing gauze against his patient’s bleeding face, “Tell Patrick we’re at the East-side highway exit.” 

Grabbing the radio, I put a call out and get a crackly acknowledgement and now we just have to wait. Still coughing on the smoky air, I watch James use gloved fingers to scoop blood and a broken tooth out of his patient’s mouth before replacing the oxygen mask. Ouch. The injured guy looks younger than I first thought, maybe not much older than me, but it's hard to tell with half his face bathed in blood and iodine. Meanwhile his weeping friend is seriously losing his shit so I scooch over there and try to talk to him. “Hey man, are you okay? This is all gonna be alright y'know, trust me we've done this a bunch of times before. James is gonna help your friend and we’ll all be out of here soon. What’s your name?” He sobs something that sounds like “Gerald” but could also be Gerard. Or Gurt. There's blood trickling down his face from under his black hair, mixing with his tears, but when I try to touch his head to see where he’s injured he jerks away from me. “It’s all my fault,” he sobs, choking on each word, “It’s all my fucking fault!”  
I have no idea what he’s talking about so I glance helplessly at James and then go and check on the others.

Ray’s eyes are half-closed and he’s coughing worse than me on the cinders in the air. A ton of blood is smeared across his face and matted into his hair but I can’t tell if it's really his blood or someone else's. Reaching out a cautious hand, I gently touch his shoulder and he looks at me with dazed eyes that are either concussed or drunk. I open my mouth to reassure him but then I notice something that freezes the words in my throat: his wrists are bleeding…and so is the left arm of the unconscious skinny kid. Both of them have dirty bandages pasted across their injuries but fresh blood is oozing through in violent red lines and dripping from their elbows and fingertips. “Oh shit,” I gasp in horror, my heart jumping as I get a nasty flashback to my own suicide attempts, “Fuck me...” 

Ray blinks at me in confusion and I can only stare back in silence, frozen in bad memories, until the familiar growl of a 4-wheel-drive engine cuts through the noise of the burning city and a large black RV appears out of the darkness on the highway. “Found you!” Patrick crows over the walkie-talkie, “You guys ready to get out of here or what?”

***  
Patrick’s RV is epic, really there is no other word for it. The thing is quite literally a life-saver and it's been my home for as long as I've known him and his uncle. It’s big, black and bullet-proof with massive weather-proof tires that have never let us down and it’s the only place I really feel safe. I can only sleep properly when I’m cocooned inside its smooth metal walls and the engine is purring like a kitten and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. The roomy rear compartments have air-con, plumbing, electric lights and cupboards stocked with supplies bolted to the walls and there are four bunkbeds to sleep on. The rest of the furnishings have been ripped out and the floor is covered wall-to-wall with plastic coated mattresses for when we have extra people who need a place to crash. The windows are sealed with bullet-proof metal sheeting so no light can leak out and alert the Hunter patrols to our presence and for the same reason the driver’s cab is completely walled off from the living area and its windows are tinted black. Patrick only drives at night and in complete darkness with no headlights to guide him, wearing night-vision goggles strapped to his face so he can see where he’s going. I guess it’s kind of like driving an army tank.  
During the day we park the RV off-road under the cover of trees or abandoned gas stations and sleep or play cards to pass the time. Sometimes James gives me some medical training so I can feel more useful, and sometimes we just talk about how things used to be and how they‘ve changed - there’s no point pretending none of it was real no matter how painful the memories are. 

At night we drive from empty villages to crumbling towns to broken cities and back again looking for food or other supplies and trying to avoid Hunters as we move slowly across what used to be the USA. We help people when we can and sometimes give them rides to safer locations but at the moment we’re heading for the East Coast and the Atlantic ocean. Maybe we can find a boat or something and sail out somewhere, maybe even get as far as Europe some day. James is convinced that the Virus didn’t affect Europe and Great Britain as much as it did America and maybe he’s right. I mean he could be. I guess. There’s no TV or satellites left running so for all we know the Virus could have been cured in Europe. Then again, every single person there could be long, long dead. 

***  
**GERARD'S POV**

This is my all fault, Frankie, all my fault! Please don't die...please you can't die now!  
My throat is closing up and I feel like I’m drowning, there's just not enough air! I’m dizzy and shaking like I'll never be able to stop and my head feels like it’s cracked in half it hurts so much. I can’t see anything but tears and shivering skin and clots of blood and Frank and his pain and his eyes and why did this have to happen?! 

He could be dying right now and it's all because of me. I led him straight to the Hunters like a lamb to the slaughter! He should have done what they wanted and saved himself and put his own life before mine because I didn’t deserve his compassion tonight, I didn’t deserve his sacrifice. If he’d done what they told him to do then he would be awake right now and looking at me… probably crying and hating himself but we’d be alright, somehow we'd be alright, and he wouldn’t be bleeding so much and lying so still right now. His body is like a shell he’s leaving for another place. He’s leaving me behind and I can’t stand it! Frankie, no, you can’t go yet, I need you... I need you so much, sweetheart! I love you, don't leave me... Don't leave...

There’s ashes in my mouth and my chest aches from sobbing but I don’t want to stop. I can’t. The ground is gone from under me and I can’t see anything but poor Frank's broken face and the Hunter’s making him scream with pain. If only I'd been more careful he might be talking to me now instead of lying so silent. I could be hugging him tight, feeling his warm breath on my neck and his heartbeat through my coat, instead of having empty arms while he's unconscious with blood in his beautiful eyes. I keep flashing back to the look on his face just before the pipe hit him: the look that said he had given up and wouldn't fight death anymore. I let him down so badly and if he dies tonight then I won't survive either. Wake up, Frankie, please wake up!  
If he dies I'll have nothing left. 

***  
**JAMES'S POV**

This was the worst night we’ve had in ages and nowadays that’s really saying something. I’ve spent half my life working as a paramedic so you might think I'd be used to blood and gore by now but I’m not. You never really get used to it, you just accept it as part of everyday life. Seeing the worst things that human beings can do to each other is part of my job and I’ve seen things so bad I swear if you looked at all that hate and violence for too long it would burn right through you. I’ll never get used to it but when I have to treat a badly wounded patient I shut off all my emotions for a bit and look at their severed limbs or skinned faces with a detachment that lets me do my job and fix as much as I can in the time I‘ve got left. Later on when the patient is either healing and safe or too far gone to help anymore, I can turn my feelings back on and drown them in a pint or have a quiet cry. It's a terrible bloody world and there’s nothing I can do to fix it except keep helping the injured and sick. As long as I’m doing that I’ve got a reason to live, even when life is hard.

After Patrick picked us up, Brendon and I got the four lads we’d rescued settled into the RV’s bunks and, Christ, they were in a bad way y'know but by some miracle they were all still breathing. Once we were safe inside and driving away from that shithole, I could finally peel off my itchy balaclava and help everyone properly without having to worry about the Hunters blowing me up or seeing my face. After a few bumpy moments things started to settle down but tonight was definitely tough and I’m absolutely knackered. Everyone except Patrick is finally asleep and I should be as well I suppose but I can’t shut my eyes. Not yet.

I never thought it would be easy living out these endless nights on the road, but it still hits me in the gut sometimes and knocks the breath out of me. We’re always running from something bad and we can't ever stop. Back in the old world when everything was peaceful and my wife was still with me I could fall asleep whenever I wanted but now all I do is lie awake for hours while the boys rest, worrying myself silly thinking about how to keep them safe and fed for another day, another week, another month... and I’m so tired of being tired.

***  
**GERARD'S POV**

When we first boarded the RV I was in such a mess I didn’t even notice the sudden light and comfort or even the fact that we were moving. All I could see was Frank and all I could do was cry like an idiot while he lay there dying on the mattress beside me and James tried to make him better. Brendon put a blanket around my shoulders and gave me some painkillers and a thermos of hot tea before focusing his attention on Ray and Ryan. The tea smelled so good I quit crying for a minute to drink some and thankfully didn’t start weeping quite so hard again afterwards. I felt like my brain was dissolving and leaking out of my ears and crying seemed like the only option.

James had to use scissors to cut away some of Frank’s clothes and a lot of his blood-matted hair to clean his injuries properly but soon every wound was disinfected and covered in gauze and soft white bandages. Through all my stupid sobs and hiccups, I tried to explain how ill Frankie’s been lately and James gave him antibiotics through the I.Vs running into his veins and covered him with an extra blanket.  
While the medic worked he spoke to me in a steady calm voice explaining everything he was doing and he tried several times to wake Frank without success. I chewed my fingernails bloody waiting and even though James insisted it was alright and Frankie wasn’t a lost cause because his sleeping eyes and body were responding to pain and pressure in all the right ways, I didn’t believe him. Until Frank actually woke up and told me he was going to be okay, all I could see was him slipping further and further away from me. I wanted to hold him and kiss him and make him feel better but it looked like he was dying all alone inside his head with no one to talk to except those voices he hated so much and I couldn’t stand it.

***  
Once Frank’s condition was stable, James changed his gloves and began examining my head and it was only then that I remembered I was injured too. Brendon’s painkillers had done a number on me and the blood on my face and hair had gone dry and flaky. I was too tired to cry anymore so I sat quietly while James examined the lumps and cuts on my head and made me touch my index fingers to my nose and answer dumb questions like who had been the last president. He shone a light in my eyes and ears and took my blood pressure and I barely even noticed. “You’ve got a mild concussion but you'll recover,” he said gently in his strangely calming accent as I gazed past him at Frank’s sleeping face, “I can give you codeine for the headache but I’d like to keep you awake for the next few hours to keep an eye on you. Ideally I need to shave some of your head too for hygiene’s sake if that’s alright but I can glue some of the cuts closed without stitches so it‘s not all bad news.”  
“Great,” I whispered numbly. 

I didn’t say anything else for a long time and James kept asking how I was feeling but I didn’t know how I felt. My mind couldn’t quite comprehend everything that had happened and I was way beyond exhausted, completely drained and lost without Frankie to talk to. 

Eventually whoever was driving the RV pulled over and turned off the engine and while the vehicle was no longer in motion James and Brendon started on more complex first-aid like sewing stitches and resetting the bones in Frank‘s hand. They had shed their balaclavas a while ago but all my tired eyes could absorb was that they were both White with dark hair and brown eyes and Brendon was skinny and looked really young, like barely twenty, while James was older, shorter and a bit chubbier. 

Brendon had been soaking Ray and Ryan’s arms in sterile saline water for several minutes and now he peeled Ray’s old dirty dressings carefully away to reveal the raw wounds underneath. It wasn't a pretty sight: two red canyons carved into his flesh running from his wrists to half-way down his forearms and the broken veins and tissue were only being held together by a handful of paper stitches. Someone had butchered him and I had to look away, burying my face in my snotty tear-stained blanket. “Oh boy,” Brendon whispered shakily as he examined his patient‘s mutilated arms. “It’s okay Bren,” James said quickly, “Just remember what I taught you.”  
“Antiseptic, local anaesthetic, iodine, sutures, dressings,” Brendon recited softly and got to work.

The RV’s windows were blacked out and sealed but two small vents circulated blissfully warm air through our shared compartment and the walls were lined with sleeping bunks and plastic cabinets stocked with canned food, spare clothes and hospital supplies. There was a toilet and sink inside a small booth near the rear and a collage of road signs and postcards from every state in America stuck to the inside of the rear doors. Piles of comfy bedding and plastic sheets covered most of the padded floor and a bio-hazard bin was fixed in one corner currently full of syringes, alcohol wipes, dirty bandages and soiled clothes. It all looked a little like a pantry crossed with a hospital ward crossed with a college dorm room and I felt safe like nothing else bad could happen as long as I stayed within these clean metal walls. 

Ryan came around while Brendon was cleaning his arm but he wouldn’t talk, not even to say if he wanted anything to eat or drink, and Ray stared at him out of the corner of his eyes and over the brim of his coffee cup, afraid to look at him directly. James shaved a small part of my head and sewed up the wounds in my scalp and then gave me a pack of wet-ones to clean my face and hands and some green medical scrubs and a clean sweater to wear. But even in all those comfy clothes and under a fresh blanket I still felt frozen inside.

***  
Ray had fallen asleep in his bunk while Brendon was taping the last white bandage around his left arm and the RV was quiet and still when Frank suddenly started making small grunts of discomfort while James taped up his broken fingers. A few seconds later his bruised eyes flickered open for the first time in hours and I gasped, hardly daring to hope. “Frankie?”

James rapidly slid Frank’s hand into a sling and shone a small light into his eyes to check his pupil reactions and Frank squirmed and whimpered under the glare until James shut it off and beckoned me closer. “It’s alright mate,” he said softly to Frank, “You’re safe now and among friends. My name is James. I’m a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?”  
Frank swallowed hard and looked tearfully around the crowded RV in obvious confusion. His breathing was rough and frightened and he quickly moved his good hand to tug at the oxygen mask on his face, looking like he wanted to get up and run far far away. “It’s alright,” James comforted, removing the mask himself and holding it up where Frank could see it, “This was just to help you breathe better, see? Don’t be scared. What’s your name?”  
“Er...Frank.”  
“Good lad.”  
“Where am I?” Frank croaked in a broken voice, on the verge of tears, “Where’s Gee?”  
“Here,” I said quickly, moving into his line of sight and resting my hand gently on his arm, “I’m right here, Frankie, it's okay.”  
Frank’s bloodshot eyes blinked warily at me. “Is it really you?” he asked in a scared whisper. “Of course it’s me,” I said, forcing a smile past the lump in my throat, “I’m right here with you.” Frank nodded faintly but the fear in his eyes told me he didn’t quite believe what I was saying. “You w-wouldn’t lie to me?”  
“No,” I said calmly, even though my heart broke for him right then, he looked so anxious and upset, “I'd never lie to you.”

“It hurts,” he mumbled, fresh tears soaking his eyelashes, “My head...an' my h-hand.”  
“I’ll turn your morphine up a bit, that should help,” James said, adjusting the valve on one of Frank’s two IVs, “There. Any better?”  
Frank nodded but his eyes were losing focus as the drugs sedated him, “Uh huh…”  
“You can sleep now, it’s alright,” James said with a small smile, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners, “But I’ll wake you up every hour to make sure you still know who you are.” Frank nodded drowsily and James checked his eyes once more and replaced his oxygen mask before letting him drift off into morphine-numbed slumber. 

Brendon had been quiet all this time looking after Ryan and I became aware of the smell of fresh blood as he stitched up the slash in Ryan‘s arm. It made my stomach curdle to know that Ryan had probably made that terrible wound himself and I dry-heaved into my blanket as my insides crawled. “I feel sick,” I groaned as my stomach lurched and sweat prickled my forehead.  
“Do you want some water?” James asked, peeling his gloves off and throwing them in the trash. “No…maybe,” I heard my voice mumble as heat filled my head and my vision dissolved into black spots. I knew I was sitting down but felt like I was falling. “Just f-feel sick...”  
“Easy now,” James said, grabbing my shoulders before I passed out and helping me onto the bunk behind me. “Have a lie down and take some deep breaths.” My head hit the pillow and I took a weak breath as my ears buzzed and the black in my eyes turned scarlet. Sweat stung the covered wounds on my head and my legs were numb. “Fuck…”  
Rummaging sounds filled the air as James removed the pillow under my head and put it under my feet instead. “Just breathe normally,” he instructed, pressing a water bottle into my hands, “There a bowl next to the bunk if you need to be sick. Just rest. Your friend is going to be fine, I'll keep an eye on him I promise. Don't worry.” Nodding slowly, I took a long quenching drink of cool water and forced my aching lungs to breathe deeply until the spots in my vision faded away and the quiet calm of the RV filled my mind and lulled me towards sleep.


	14. Night Terrors

**RAY'S P.O.V.**

Nearly every night I see my family dying again in my nightmares and this night was no exception. I lost both my parents and my brothers and sister within the space of a week and it still hurts me every damn day. I don’t let myself think about them at all when I’m awake because I’m afraid of falling apart and not being able to put myself back together again, but when I’m asleep I have nowhere to hide from the memories. It’s enough to drive anyone insane.

Passed out in the back of some stranger's RV travelling through a nation of corpses, I watched my family die all over again but this time I also dreamt about Nicholas. 

I could see him as clear as day, locked up alone in a quarantine room all curled up on a vomit-stained cot, barefoot and wearing bloodstained pajamas, weeping with fever and pain and the knowledge that he’s going to die soon. No one can help him. He has the Virus. I hate to watch him suffer like this and I knock gently on the sealed glass wall of his cage to let him know I‘m there. Slowly, he raises his head to look at me and his sweating pale face is turning a sickly shade of gray. Virus-polluted blood is running from his nose and down his chin and he‘s trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Sinking to my knees, I watch him sit up on the filthy bed and start crying. “Oh god, Nick, I’m sorry. I‘M SO SORRY!” He shakes his head and coughs, spitting up bubbling clots of blood and doubling over in pain as the Virus burns out his fragile body. Crying myself stupid, I sink heavily against the glass in front of me and suddenly the quarantine room grows bigger and the glass wall shatters and dissolves into nothing, dropping me into the disease-soaked cell. Screaming in horror, I slip on the dirty floor and land face-first in a pool of stringy red vomit. The stench of death fills my nose and mouth and I scramble to my knees looking wildly around. “HELP! Somebody help me!” I beg, “Get me out of here!” But nobody comes and I can’t move a muscle as Nick crawls slowly over the slippery floor towards me. The air vibrates with panic and suddenly he's right in front of me with his blood-slicked hands around my throat. “Why did you let me die, Ray?” he screams, spitting blood and sickness into my eyes. “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAVE ME?!”

***  
I awake with a jolt and my heart beating double-time, gulping gasps of air as Nick‘s ghost fades away into the lamplight. Just another fucking nightmare. Wait… lamplight? Where am I? Panting broken breaths, I feel each inhalation catch in my shuddering chest and realize that my face is wet: I’ve been crying in my sleep. Great. 

While my racing heart tries to slow down, I realize I’m lying on a comfy compact bunk-bed with a crumpled blanket over me and a pillow scrunched up under my cheek, warm and moist with tears or sweat. I feel a bit nauseous and incredibly thirsty and my head is throbbing in a numb sort of way that could mean my nerves are blocked with painkillers. Blinking through sore, crusty eyes I peer out of my bunk and see the familiar interior of the spacious RV that belongs to the guys who rescued us, bathed in dim soft light. My stomach clenches and I breathe a sob of relief to know that I’m somewhere safe and my friends are here too. 

Sniffing quietly, I raise my hands to my face and feel a sharp tug in the skin of my left hand from an IV needle and tube taped there to deliver some kind of liquid into a chunky blue vein. My forearms are numb and wrapped in fresh bandages and I wonder how bad the scars will be when they finally heal. Pete and his goons hurt me real bad tonight. Shit, I almost died! Groping weakly around under my sheets, I discover I’m wearing a hospital gown type thing and clean boxer shorts that I vaguely remember changing into, but thankfully there isn’t a catheter or any other medical equipment attached to my dick. I breathe another sigh of relief for that.

Squinting, I lift my head a little and glance again at my three surviving friends. Ryan is lying on the bunk opposite mine and Frank and Gerard are sleeping together on a wide mattress on the floor, all curled up in pillows and comforters. Their sleeping faces look relaxed and calm and from what I can tell they're all wearing clean clothes or gowns like mine under their covers. The lights inside the RV have been dimmed to a faint orange glow and the engine is silent. We must be parked someplace and I nervously wonder where and why. Come to think of it who was driving this thing anyway? I remember two blurry-looking guys dressed in camo... and something about Ryan‘s suicide attempt. 

Rubbing my eyes with clumsy fingers, I watch Ryan sleep for a minute or two just to make sure he’s still breathing. His injured arm is lying outside his blanket, bandaged up and flopped still and pale across his chest, and a half-drunk bottle of soda and some crumpled Kleenex are bundled up next to his pillow. His closed eyes look puffy from crying but all that matters is that he’s alive and against all the odds I still haven’t lost him yet. I only wish I could say the same about Nick.

Frank is lying crashed out on his back under a camping blanket with his arm in a sling and stitches and band-aids criss-crossing his bruised face, sucking the thumb of his uninjured hand while Gerard is snuggled next to him with his face against Frank's shoulder, lost in dreaming, and his arm over his friend's chest. Actually “friend” is probably not the right word anymore, they seem to be so much more to each other than that and I get all sentimental just looking at them. They have both had radical haircuts since I was last awake and I frantically feel my tangled fro to check that I haven't had my head sheared too. I haven't, thank fuck.

Swallowing without saliva in my dry mouth, I drop my head back onto the damp pillow and close my eyes. The RV is warm and the sleepy air smells like antiseptic, coffee, and new-car-smell air freshener. All I can hear is the soft sound of people breathing and the faint purr of an air vent and the horrors of my nightmare wash away as silence and clouds fill my mind...

Then someone coughs quietly and my dazed brain finally notices that my friends and I aren‘t alone in here. Sitting on the bunk above Ryan's bed in the faint orange light is a dude dressed in army fatigues and I guess he’s one of the people who saved our lives tonight but I can’t remember his name. He looks older than me - maybe nearing forty – and has a round, worried-looking face, dark eyes and short brown hair. He looks like he hasn’t shaved or slept for a few days and he's holding a white plastic stick between his lips, chewing on it slowly as he stares blankly at the ceiling.

Figuring I can get a glass of water out of him, I prop myself up on one elbow and clear my throat. The stranger looks down at me with a tired smile and plucks the stick from his mouth before putting it in one of his jacket's many pockets. “Alright?” he asks me in a hushed voice, “How are you feeling?” He has a cool accent and seems pretty likable. “Thirsty,” I answer honestly, “And my head’s a little fuzzy.”  
He nods sympathetically and jumps down from the bunk, landing silently on the padded floor in his socks, before fetching a water bottle from a cupboard on the wall and handing it to me with an awkward shrug. He's surprisingly short close-up, about as short as Frank, and he’s wearing a blue soccer shirt under his army jacket. “Drink as much as you like,” he says quietly, kneeling down to adjust my IV, “There's plenty to go around. Do you remember my name?”  
“Er…no,” I admit, slurping a welcome mouthful of water.  
“It’s James, and you’re Ray yeah?”  
“Yeah. Am I…okay? Medically?”  
“I’d say so. You’ve been passed out for a few hours now but you’ll feel better once you’re rested and rehydrated. Are you in any pain?” Shaking my head, I chug as much water as I can before I feel sick and have to stop. I wish I had a book to read or something. I don’t want to go to sleep again yet when there’s so many nightmares in my mind.

James sits down on the padded floor between my bunk and Frank and Gerard’s mattress and I wonder for the first time if there's anyone sleeping in the bunk above mine. With a small sigh he fishes the white stick out of his pocket again and puts it to his lips, taking a drag, and I can see it’s actually one of those plastic nicotine inhaler things that help people quit smoking. He raises his eyebrows when he sees me watching and looks down sheepishly. “I haven’t been able to find real ones for ages,” he explains, rubbing absently at his forehead, “But some of the old clinics still have this nicotine-replacement rubbish.”  
“Is that where all your medical supplies came from?” I ask, looking up at the cupboards on the walls, “Bombed-out clinics?”  
“Mostly,” James answers, “We move around a lot and pick up whatever we can find.”  
“Right. How are my friends?”  
James glances tiredly around at the bunks. “They’re all out of the woods physically and asleep at the moment. I’ve been waking Gerard and Frank up every so often to test their memory functions and I’d rather they were awake all night to be honest but the poor lads are so tired. They can’t keep their eyes open.”

Lying down is making me feel queasy so I sit up against the bunk’s headboard and take some deep breaths, waiting for the nausea to pass. My memories of last night are flooding back and I don’t feel like talking anymore in case I start freaking out about Ryan’s attempted suicide or crying over Nicholas so I drink some more water and pray that the sea of regrets and bad thoughts will go away. I think maybe the awful experience of being William’s prisoner kept me from having enough time to grieve properly for Nicholas and for some reason the full impact of losing him hits me right now in my bunk. Grief aches in my gut and my eyes get warm and wet as I bite my tongue hard to keep from crying. Nick was just a kid and Pete helped to fucking murder him and Ryan tried to kill himself tonight because his boyfriend is gone. How am I supposed to stop him from trying again?

James follows my gaze and glances at Ryan, then shoots me a concerned look. “I know it’s hard but try not to worry,” he says softly, “I’ve examined his arm and, um, his other injuries and he'll be fine. As for his mental state... Well I’m keeping him sedated for now and Brendon will keep an eye on him later when it’s his turn to be on Watch. We won‘t let him hurt himself here, I promise you that.” 

Misery and unshed tears are clogging my throat so I just nod in gratitude and take another sip of water as my hands start to shake around the bottle. The sickness in my stomach is oozing into my heart and stings sharply with all the goddamn sadness of all the shit that's happened. I try to block it out but the memories keep coming and before long I give up and give in and my vision drowns in a sea of salt-water as I start to weep.

***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

NO! DON’T! PLEASE STOP!!  
Despite the numbing alcohol William forced down my throat a fiery pain still spears my lower body and I’m close to blacking out. Vomit soaks my face and sweat burns my eyes as blood runs down my thighs - STOP IT! PLEASE! - and I can’t cry out because I’ve run out of breath. Rough bathroom tiles grate the skin off my knees as I’m jerked forwards with every brutal thrust and the shame of this abuse makes my thrashing heart pound wounds into my chest. Please God, take me away from this. Let me pass out! Let me die! A final shove of force, and then my voice returns and I scream myself hoarse as the vile eruption of his cum swells inside me and self-disgust crushes the last shred of my dignity. A pitiful groan escapes my mouth and my guts twist and I hurl stomach acid and vodka all over the bath. “Please, please s-stop!” I’m sobbing into the dying light, “Stop, please…stop.” But it’s too late now: it’s already done. With a grotesque snort of pleasure William pulls out his wilting cock and leaves what’s left of me collapsed against the bathtub, shaking and crying. I feel so naked and exposed it‘s like my skin is gone. I can’t stop trembling and my legs are wet and sticky. I’ve been stripped to the bones and I’m filthy now. First William took away Nicky - my only reason for living - and now he’s stolen my body too and made me sick and perverted. Everything I’ve ever clung to, even my own skin, has been violated by him and ruined. Let me die now, let me die! The rubbery snap of a used condom makes me flinch and then the ‘whoosh’ of a shower jet bites through the air. Strong hands grab me and shove me under the hot water and it hurts all over again and I splutter huge choking sobs. Let me die, let me die, I want to fucking die! But I’m still alive and still in pain, and the hands that raped me are reaching down again to claw at my shaking skin! A desperate scream bursts from my lips as I cower away. “LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!”

“Ryan…? Ryan wake up!”  
Firm hands grip my arms and I scream my lungs to shreds, “GET OFF ME! STOP IT!!”  
“Ryan, wake up! It's okay, you‘re just having a nightmare!”  
Trembling with fear I force my blind eyes open and see… Ray looking at me with a worried frown. We’re in a warm soft room full of sleep and I realise with sickening relief that I’m still safe and sound in the back of the RV. I can hardly breathe and my heart is slamming itself to pieces but I’m awake and safe and no one is going to hurt me here. It was only a dream, just a dream… But no, wait, it was more than that. It was a flashback to something that really happened to me. It was a memory of pain I really felt and a death-wish I really wanted and if it was real once then it’s real now too.

It’s been nearlu a week since Nick went away and William raped me and every time I close my eyes I can feel the endless raging hurt. Nick died - he fucking died in that evil city! – and I feel like there’s no one here who understands the horrors I’ve been through and the awful things that I‘ve seen. Without Nick's love and his warm strong arms I feel so alone, no matter how many people are around me, and it hurts so much. All I have left of him is the aching emptiness of knowing he’s gone forever and I can’t keep replaying the sight of his beautiful face all drained and dead and cold in my mind. I can’t keep reliving what William did to me when I have to bear it all on my own... 

“Are you okay, Ry?” Ray whispers, helping me sit up and hugging me gently as he kneels by my bunk. “Of course not!” I sob miserably, pushing him away as another violent memory burns my eyes, “I don't want to be here anymore and I h-hate that all of you keep making me stay!”  
“Oh Ry...” He goes quiet and I know he’s upset but he just wants to make me feel better and he can’t so I hate it when he tries. He tried helping me back in the city but all he did was get more people hurt. He didn't mean it but it's true and if he hadn’t gone to William’s house looking for revenge then Pete wouldn’t have known where to find me and William wouldn’t have raped me. I could be dead right now with Nicholas, resting in peace, but I’m not and it’s all his fault. Ray loves me like a father loves a kid but I’m not a fucking kid, especially not his kid, and even if he doesn’t mean to make things worse for me, somehow he always does. He wants to keep me alive like it’s his right but I am not his to keep! So far on this ride to nowhere no one has given me a good enough reason to keep living that isn‘t patronizing or somehow benefits them by easing their own guilt. I just want someone to give me a reason I can understand and something I can hold onto besides this empty hole where Nick used to be. Please, just give me SOMETHING!

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

Ryan’s been moving around and weeping in his sleep for what seems like an hour now and the noise is keeping me awake. Just like last night, and the night before that. It’s been several days since we joined James and company on the road and Ryan has been like this the entire time. Whether he’s asleep or awake all he does is cry or go silent and catatonic, locked inside his own thoughts, and I can’t stand it. Even when he's not making a sound, tears constantly run from his tired eyes, making his cheeks red and sore and I want to help him but he won’t let anybody get close enough. He’s not sleeping properly, he barely eats and most of the time he won’t even speak to anyone. He's suffering and I can understand some of his pain because we all have loved ones we've lost and if I lost Frank god knows I would probably go mad, but if he won’t let anyone help him deal with his loss then how will things ever get better? 

Another few minutes of Ryan’s restless sleep kills the silence in the RV and then he suddenly starts screaming chilling cries of terror that make my skin crawl. Covering my ears as my spine stiffens with sympathy and annoyance, I watch Ray shuffle out of his bunk and go to wake Ryan up. After a little persuasion, the kid wakes with a final howl of terror and starts sobbing quietly as he quickly shoves Ray away. It’s the same routine every night and I sigh into my pillow and try to ignore it, rolling over instead to face Frank who is somehow managing to sleep through all of this noise. I can just about see his slowly healing face in the dim glow of RV night-time (which is actually day-time in the outside world since we drive around and do everything while the stars are out) and he looks so cute and peaceful that I have to smile. 

The bunk above Ray’s shifts and I can hear someone else moving around and without looking I know it’s Brendon because James and Patrick are chilling up front in the driver’s cab. Brendon always seems willing to try and calm Ryan’s frayed nerves when the rest of us can’t and sure enough when I peek out from under the covers I see that he’s turned up the lights a little and is sitting with his arm wrapped gently around Ryan’s bony shoulders holding a glass of something, probably iced tea, to his lips. Ryan can’t drink and cry at the same time so he goes silent for a while and sips while Ray whispers something in a worried, tired voice. Brendon listens for a minute and then softly asks Ryan if he’d like to go outside for some fresh air. I can hear Ryan’s hair rustle against Brendon’s sweater as he nods and sniffles ‘Yes’ and I’m amazed that Brendon is the only one who can get Ryan to agree to anything these days. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t there in the city with us so he never knew what went on. Or maybe it's fate or something, who the fuck knows .

It’s almost sunset and we’ve been parked at an abandoned Truck-Stop in the middle of nowhere since before dawn. Early this morning we broke into the Truck-Stop Café to use the toilets and fire up the gas stove in the kitchen to boil some water: bottled stuff for coffee and clean water from the toilet-tanks for washing and shaving (running tap water went out of business a long time ago). We ate some cans of tuna and preserves while Patrick siphoned gas for the RV from an abandoned pick-up truck in the parking lot and Brendon raided the Café’s stock cupboard for supplies. 

Ryan went a little crazy in the bathroom when it was his turn to wash up and he started scrubbing his chest and face so hard the skin bled before punching the walls and smashing the mirror over the sink with a broken faucet. He also wouldn’t eat with us, just sipped a little lemonade, and everyone tip-toed sadly around him not knowing what to say. Watching him suffer without Nicholas around is like watching a car-crash in slow motion: it's horrible and hopeless but you can't look away from it.

I can't afford to worry too much about Ryan though because Frank is and always will be my number one priority. The wounds to his hand and face are healing gradually and he’s back on his feet but the torment in his head seems to be getting worse by the day, not better. I don‘t know what cruel or violent things his personal monsters say to him but sometimes he gets so upset he just pulls a blanket over his head and cries or stares at the floor for an hour huddled in a corner. Sometimes I can bring him out of it with cuddles and soft words, sometimes not. Other times he covers his ears and mumbles some kind of chant under his breath to try and block out the whispers, but it doesn’t always work. I regularly catch him having one-sided conversations with people who aren’t there and occasionally his green eyes flood with fear while he’s talking to me or Ray or James and I think he’s hallucinating strange things in our faces. I spend almost every moment with him, whether we're in the RV or scavenging supplies in towns or playing cards or sleeping or talking or whatever because he gets worried and nervous when I'm not around, even for a few minutes. We sleep together every night and I try to keep his monsters at bay by holding him tight and stroking the short spiky hair around his neck while he snuggles on my chest. We haven't done anything more intimate than kissing and cuddles though. I mean yeah I would like to of course and he's asked me about it in a shy adorable way but I don't think it's a good idea when he's this vulnerable. Unfortunately for us James isn’t a psychiatrist and since we don't have access to proper medications or treatments there's a very real danger that Frankie's condition will never improve. On his bad days all I want to do is hold him and protect him from his terrors until they go away but they might never go away and he's convinced himself that the voices in his mind are actually real people. To him I think they are as real as I am.


	15. Camisado

**BRENDON'S P.O.V.**

I dig around in the assorted crap under the bunks until I find an extra sweater and another blanket under Patrick's guitar case and when Ryan’s dressed I help him up and unlock the RV door, leading him outside into the cold. The sun has already set and the Truck Stop parking lot is dark and silent, guarded by dead trees and the skeletons of torched cars. The air is icy and the ground crunches with frozen puddles under our boots. There are no birds or insects chirping. We could be the only living creatures for a hundred miles.

Despite the thick sweater Ryan starts shivering almost instantly and when I offer him my hand his thin fingers cautiously wrap around it for extra warmth. “How are you feeling?” I ask him carefully, watching my breath smoke in the pale moonlight. Ryan sniffs and sort of shakes his head, chewing on his chapped lips in silence. I’m not going to push him to talk or patronise him because I’ve seen how badly that works out when Ray does it, and he looks so fragile I half-expect him to snap into pieces at any moment. His brown eyes look huge in his thin face and shadows are playing in the hollows of his cheekbones. There’s a small cut on his right hand from when he smashed up a bunch of mirrors today. I saw him do that but I didn’t stop him. I hope he managed to let out some of his pent-up emotions.

With my free hand I show him the blanket I grabbed and ask if I can wrap it around his shoulders. He seems grateful that I bothered to ask and nods so I pull the thick cloth securely around him and wrap it around his neck like a big scarf as my skin tingles in the chill darkness.

Letting go of his hand, I walk around the RV to the driver’s window and tap three times on the frosty glass. After a few seconds it winds down and Patrick’s sleepy face appears. He’s wearing a parka with the fur-lined hood pulled up and his blue eyes are blurred in the darkness. “Hey Bren,” he yawns, “You okay?”  
“Yeah fine, but I’m gonna take Ryan back to the Café for a while. I thought you should know so you don’t drive off without us.”  
“Have you got your walkie-talkie?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Make sure you keep it turned on so I can call you back when we wanna leave. Or if some Hunters decide to drop by.”  
“Will do. Is James asleep?”  
“Uh huh. Why?”  
“Please don’t tell him we‘re gone if he wakes up he'll just worry. We’ll be back soon, I promise.”  
“You better be.”

***  
The empty truck-stop café is nearly as cold as outside and the kitchen smells like rotten food and coffee beans. Ryan sits down on a stool while I walk around turning on all the gas ovens to give us some light and heat. There’s still some water sitting out from when we were here at meal-time so I pour it into a clean pan and set it boiling to make us a drink. Ryan doesn’t move except to shiver and occasionally adjust his blanket but he seems much calmer here than he did in the RV. He doesn’t like being around Ray much but he seems okay with me.

To be honest I can see some of my old self in Ryan and it’s not a comfortable mirror to look into. I feel like I should help get this broken kid back on the path to happiness somehow because looking him is like looking at myself six months ago when I was trying to kill myself and crying in a dirty gutter, and I would do anything to save him from that. James saved me when no one else could and I need to know that Ryan has the same chance.

Clearing my throat, I pull up a second stool opposite his and look at his downcast eyes until he raises them to meet my gaze. “Go on then,” he sighs wearily, “Give me your platitudes and tell me it’s okay. Say what you’re gonna say.”  
“I don’t want to say anything right now,” I tell him calmly, “I think you’ve heard enough people talking at you. But I’d like it if you talked to me.” Ryan looks confused for a second and then his face falls back into a grim frown, “What do you want me to say?” he asks flatly.  
“Anything you want. Tell me about your life, or about how much you fucking hate your life. Tell me that you hate me if you like, or you hate yourself, or that you want to die…”  
“Maybe I do want to die,” Ryan says quickly, staring hard into my eyes.  
“Honestly?” I ask steadily.  
“Yes.”  
“Do you think Nicholas would want you to die?”

Ryan’s eyes go dark with rage. “What did you say?” he whispers. “You know what I said,” I reply, struggling to keep my face calm while inside I’m panicking about whether I’ve already pushed him too far, “Would Nicholas want you to die?”  
“You can't fucking ask me that!” Ryan yells, suddenly on his feet as his face flushes with anger and his eyes turn into two pools of tears, “DON’T YOU DARE SAY HIS NAME! YOU DON‘T DESERVE TO SAY IT! NO ONE DOES!”  
“Fair enough. I‘m sorry, Ryan, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, reaching out to steady him as he hunches over in an anguished mess. He doesn’t push me away like he always does with Ray and I hope I‘m somehow making progress. “I loved him, Brendon, I loved him so much! Do any of you even understand that?” he chokes, sitting back and trembling so badly that his face drains of colour and I’m scared he’s going to pass out but he doesn’t. “I loved him and now he’s gone forever. And everyone talks at me and tells me I'll be okay but I won't! I won't! No one can make it better! They can’t bring h-him back, they w-wouldn‘t... I couldnt even bury him!”  
“I know,” I murmur softly, my own eyes starting to flood, “I‘m so sorry.” 

Ryan falls silent, his eyes dull and weeping, and I start to step away but he grabs my sweater and tugs me closer. Kneeling down beside his stool on the cold tiles, I hesitantly hug him gently around the waist and he clutches weakly at my shoulders, sobbing bitterly, his face soaked. “I c-can’t breathe without him, Brendon and I don’t want to.”  
I don’t answer yet, I just listen and he keeps on talking. “I don't deserve to be breathing, it’s all m-my fault! Nick died, he DIED cos he was out there...b-because I wasn't! He protected m-me, stopped me doing what h-he had to do and he d-died because of that! Ray doesn‘t get it, n-none of you can get it!!”  
He’s crying so hard now he can barely speak and his juddering words dissolve into thick sobs of heartbroken grief, “I m-miss him s-so much!”  
With my cheek against his bony chest I listen to his sharp, erratic breathing as he hugs my neck and cries into my hair, waiting patiently for him to get through the worst of it so we can talk again. “It’s not your fault Ryan,” I tell him, “It was never your fault or Nick's. It was whoever hurt him that night who killed him. Them and only them. He didn't die because of you or what he did to protect you. It's not your fault... “I keep repeating the words over and over until hopefully they start getting through to him, “It is not your fault and it never was. It sounds like Nicholas did what he did because he loved you more than anything and he wanted to do it because he wanted you safe and he wanted you to survive and that was his choice to make. I bet you would have done anything to protect him too if your roles had been reversed. He loved you just as much as you love him and what he did was like his gift to you. He wanted you safe and now you are. He wanted you alive and you are. It’s not your fault, Ryan. You and Nick were both victims of things you couldn‘t control. It’s not your fault.”

We sit together like that for a long time, warming up in the orange-blue glow of the ovens flames until eventually Ryan’s sobs start to sound different. Less heavy and tortured and more free and sad and flowing. He sounds like he’s grieving properly now, like in a healthy way, instead of dying inside, and after a while he tires himself out completely and his cries fade into exhausted gulps and sighs as he leans wearily against me. 

“Whatever happened to you in the city must have been terrible,” I whisper, wiping his teardrops from my face as they drip through my hair, “Maybe it was so bad that it's beyond words to describe and you don't ever have to talk about it again if you don't want to. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I know you’re tired of hearing stupid clichés and I’m not gonna lie and say that one day the bad memories will disappear and you’ll be totally untouched by the pain, because you won‘t. It's not ‘okay’ now, of course it's not, and that's alright. I understand that, honestly I do. What I am going to tell you though is that the hurt will get easier to carry over time. The pain won’t vanish but it will heal into something you can live with instead of something that destroys you, and Nicholas would want that right? He'd want you to carry on.”

Ryan lets out a long tired breath and finally lifts his face out of my hair, looking at me with pink puffy eyes full of questions. “But how do you know it will get easier?” he asks in a pleading voice, “How can you understand how I feel now or w-what I’m going to feel later? How do you know anything?” 

With a slow breath, I let go of Ryan‘s stool and gingerly roll up my sleeves, holding my arms out in front of him and showing him the thick pink scars of my attempted suicides. After a tense moment of surprise, he looks at my arms carefully in the dim light and his sore eyes flicker between my scarred skin and his own bandaged arm. “Why did you do it?” he asks solemnly.  
“Because I was alone," I confess quietly, "I was painfully and totally alone, and I hated myself for being that way. Everyone I ever loved had died and I didn't have friends like yours to talk to or protect me. Not one person in this world gave a damn if I lived or died and the only people I had contact with were the other lowlifes on the street when they beat me up or stole my clothes or…hurt me in other ways.”  
“You mean…” Ryan starts, then pauses and clears his throat.  
“Yeah,” I admit shakily, tears springing to my eyes as I remember the violation and pain of the slimy erections and hard cold objects forced into my helpless body, “I guess I was lucky though cos I never caught the Virus... or anything else ”  
“Jesus, Brendon. That's... Fuck. That's awful. I’m so sorry,” Ryan says, gently rubbing my shoulders with his thin fingers as I burst into the stupid tears I thought I could hold back. “Thanks for telling me,” he sniffles, stroking my damp hair, “Thanks for trusting me.”

Wiping my eyes roughly with my sleeves, I make myself stop crying and look up to see that his blank, miserable face has changed into something resembling relief and gratitude. He’s relieved that he’s found someone who knows what it feels like to be destroyed and violated so badly that you’d rather rip out your own veins than live another day feeling so alone and empty and dirty.

“But we don’t have to die because of what happened to us,” I add quickly, swallowing a lump in my throat, “If we hurt ourselves again then we’re just letting the pain and the badness win and fuck it, we can't do that, y'know? We don't deserve to keep losing. James stopped me from killing myself and someone stopped you too and I think maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe the people we loved who died are still looking out for us...somewhere. And there are still people in the world who are good and who do care and want to help us out, like James and Patrick and your friends. If Nicholas risked his life to protect you then he must have cared about keeping you safe more than anything else in the world, including himself. Who’s going to remember that and all the other little things you loved about him if you don’t? Do you think he'd want you to keep going and keep living?”  
Ryan nods and wipes his nose on his sleeve, “Uh huh. He would. I try to forget, but I know he would.”  
“I know it’s hard. I know life seems fucking impossible some days but then again it’s never been perfect for anyone, even when we were kids and the old world was still here. Life is just… this. Right now. This moment I guess. Sitting here, breathing, talking...maybe crying. Remembering the people we love is living and you can do it, you’re doing it right now and you can carry on doing it. It won’t always be this hard. James taught me not to think about tomorrow or the next day. He says all I have to do is get through the moment I’m living in, and then the next one, and the one after that. One moment at a time. One day at a time. I believe him because I know he cares about me, and I care about you and… I think most pain heals into something bearable eventually but only if you give it the chance.”

“But what if I can‘t?” Ryan frets, clutching my shoulders tightly as he searches my face for reassurance, “What if I’m not strong enough to live through the moments?”  
Wiping my eyes again, I rest a hand on his skinny arm and look at him honestly. “I'll try and be strong for both of us for now. I’m your friend, right? So I’ll protect you until you're ready to face the world again. Doesn't matter how long it takes. I‘ll be here to help you for as long as you need me to be. We can help each other. You're not alone, man.”  
“No, I guess not,” Ryan breathes, looking like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “Thanks," he adds quietly, "You’ve really helped, Brendon, more than you know probably. You gave me something I didn‘t think...Anyway, I won’t forget this. Thank you." He looks so much better and I feel better too, safer and more comfortable than I’ve felt outside the RV for a long time. 

After a little more random chat, Ryan notices that the water I put on to boil is bubbling over so I turn off the heat and make us some hot, sugary coffee. While Ryan drinks his tears dry away and out of the blue he starts telling me some pretty adorable things he remembers about Nicholas. To keep him encouraged I share some memories too, mostly about my big sisters Becky and Izzy, may they rest in peace. 

My stomach starts to growl so I search the kitchen high and low for any food we might missed earlier in the day and find a can of tomato soup and a dusty box of crackers tucked into the back of a cupboard. Ryan hasn't eaten anything all day as far as I know but when I nervously ask if he wants some food now he actually says yes. The soup cooks quickly and fills the kitchen with a warm homey smell that reminds me of cosy family meals from when I was little and makes me ache for my lost mom and dad. Ryan manages to slurp several big spoonfuls and some mashed-up crackers before he says he needs to stop because his tummy hurts so I finish the meal for him and make a cup of tepid water to settle his stomach. We sneak back into the RV just before 6 after Patrick calls to say it’s time to get back on the road and climb tiredly into our separate bunks. Everyone else is either driving, reading or still asleep and I stay awake for a while watching over Ryan while he rests in case he has another nightmare. For the first time since I've met him though he seems to enjoy some calm, peaceful sleep. 

**

**RAY'S P.O.V.**

It's Day Twenty of our time on the road. When I open my eyes after our usual daytime sleep the first thing I feel is the soft vibration of the RV’s engine telling me we’re on the move again, and the first thing I see is Ryan sound asleep in the bunk opposite mine. I wonder how many sedatives he took last night. James has been giving pills out to him and Frank on a daily basis to keep them calm and they usually take them. Sitting up, I scratch my head and get out of bed, noticing now that Brendon is sharing Ryan’s bunk again, sleeping behind him, fully clothed with his face buried in a blue comforter, and I hear myself grunt in annoyance.

Brendon seems like a nice enough kid but I don't get why Ryan is spending every second of every day with him now while at the same time he won’t even say two words to me. I wouldn’t mind so much but I‘ve tried so hard to show him I‘m sorry for what happened in the city and I want to rebuild our friendship if I can but he just gives me the metaphorical finger. I know he blames me for a lot of the suffering he went through and for the loss of Nicholas' body and I understand that because I blame myself too, but I miss being his friend. I miss his company, and Nick’s too, and I'm lonely without them to talk to and hang out with. Back in the city, even when life was really hard at least we had each other. Nowadays we’re both living in the same small space but Ryan doesn’t even look at me unless he has to. Meanwhile he and Brendon sleep beside each other, eat together, share books and old magazines and spend hours side by side outside the RV when we're parked, talking or drawing pictures on empty sidewalks with sticks of chalk. I should be glad that Ryan’s new buddy makes him happy but I’m not, I’m bitter. Everyone has a best friend on this road trip to nowhere except me and being alone in a vehicle full of people is starting to grate. Frank and Gerard are obviously an item and have their own little world of secret whispers and glances that no one else can penetrate. Ryan has Brendon, and James and Patrick share a father-son type of bond because they are family; and then there‘s me: big old grouchy Ray, the permanent seventh wheel. 

Maybe I'm wallowing in self-pity a bit. Gerard, James, Patrick and often Brendon chat to me all the time but I wish I had someone I felt close enough to talk to about the sad stuff rocketing around my brain every day and filling my nightmares with dead faces. Sometimes I feel so damaged inside or so guilty or so frightened that I want to scream but I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone, not even James who saw me break down and cry on my first night here. On my worst days I stare at the desolate sky outside and wish that I had bled to death that night in the Waiting Room. Our whole world is a wasteland and I don’t have any plans for the future except basic survival, but sometimes I catch myself day-dreaming about a nice woman I might find some day out here on the roads and I wonder who the hell am I kidding? I lost the only girl I ever loved a long time ago and she ain’t coming back.

On the bright side, yesterday was a good day because we got to have showers and wash our clothes and lie around in the sun. We found an empty trailer park with a shower room that still worked off a little water tower and a half-busted generator and it was the best feeling in the world standing under that pounding, rushing water and letting it wash everything away. I scrubbed every speck of sweat and dirt from my skin until it felt as clean and pure as a newborn baby's, then shaved my matted beard and gargled mouthwash to burn the taste of grief and ashes out of my mouth. 

Afterwards I looked in the mirror for a long time, staring through my sad reflection until the image blurred and I felt like a ghost for a moment, an invisible drifter, and it felt strangely good to let go of my body for a few seconds. We’re all just ghosts now, driving on towards nothing over a corpse-ridden globe. The face I see in the mirror isn't the person I used to be. I will never be my old self again.


	16. Impact

**PATRICK'S P.O.V.**

I guess the most important thing about me is that I love to drive. Just give me cars, trucks, motorcycles, boats - I can drive pretty much anything with an engine, but it wasn't until the world ended that my obsession became more than just a hobby and turned into a way to survive. For the last eight months I’ve been driving a refitted black RV - nicknamed Angel - that I liberated from a dead man's driveway. She’s a sweet-tempered, reliable old gal and as long as I keep the road running under her every night and the miles ticking away I can pretend I'm safe and sane in this crazy world that’s giving Hell a run for its money. If I wasn't here helping James dodge Hunters and rescue survivors to transport them on to better places I'd probably be drinking myself to death at the edge of the huge smoking crater that used to be Chicago, crying over what I‘ve lost. 

Uncle James married my aunt Sarah five years ago after they met in an emergency room. He was a paramedic and she was a nurse and they loved each other very much. Tragically when the Virus first began to appear in the city hospitals, Sarah was one of the first people to get sick and by the next day there were hundreds of others showing symptoms of the disease. It spread faster than anything before it and pardon my language, but in that first deadly week, the world was already fucked. Soon after the first waves of victims died the President ordered the military to quarantine Chicago and several other infected cities at Level 5, the highest level of containment which meant destroying the Virus in those cities at any cost before it could spread further afield. In other words, we were set to be nuked into oblivion to try and wipe out the infection and save the outside world. Naturally that information was never given to the dying public and one night a dozen regiments of soldiers in biological hazmat suits snuck into the city and evacuated any remaining healthy medical professionals and government personnel. Everybody else - hundreds of thousands of men, women and children - were left behind with the Virus, trapped behind road-blocks and sniper patrols to die.

When Aunt Sarah first got sick she was put into quarantine and James was kept away from her. After she died, scans of his blood showed that he wasn’t infected and as a senior paramedic he was on the list of personnel to be evacuated before the bombs dropped. When the men in hazmat suits came for him I was there at his house crying myself to sleep on his couch because my parents had both just passed away along with my aunt. James found me a spare medic's uniform to wear and gave the soldiers my clean blood-scan results and all the money he had to get me a seat on an evacuation chopper to Louisiana. He saved my life.

Once Chicago was burned to hell, airplanes sprayed disinfectant and napalm over the smoking rubble, gradually expanding their range to cover all that was left of Illinois but it wasn’t enough. Chicago was just one of many infected cities all over the world and the United States was already doomed. People started dying in their homes and cars and on the streets and whoever was left in charge of North America after the Administration died closed our borders and bombed every airport into dust. An army of masked monsters known only as ‘The Hunters’ were unleashed to round up survivors into a few remaining "Safe Zones" and anyone who tried to run away or was found to be infected was shot and burned on sight. By then all the TV and radio stations had shut down, satellites were disengaged and cell phones and wireless connections were useless. We had no idea what was going on elsewhere in the country or in the world at large or how many other people, if any, were still alive out there. Law and order was extinct and a lot of people completely checked out of their sanity. Hundreds of smaller towns were looted and bombed out and millions more died… The Virus was the apocalypse to end all apocalypses and it's depressingly ironic that the USA ended up using Weapons of Mass Destruction on itself.

Fast-forward to the present day and everyone travelling in Angel has a similar sad story. I’m getting sick of hearing them to be honest. Give me a hundred miles of dusty road to cover and some music in the CD player and I can almost pretend things are alright for a while. Almost. It's impossible to ignore the abandoned cars and occasional piles of burnt bodies and that's one of the reasons I only drive at night: so I don’t have to see the horrors in the harsh light of day. I can't take it. I’m not afraid of catching the Virus anymore but I have different fears now. Whether or not I’m still alive today isn’t what matters: it’s whether I’ll be alive tomorrow or the day after that. Angel needs a constant supply of gas and her passengers need food and water and since we’ve been hauling around four extra people for the last few weeks, food and fuel shortages are starting to become kind of an issue. 

Here's the deal: right now we're driving around the North-East trying to get up to Canada and the land here is terrible: nothing but a sickly urban graveyard. When we've driven through Western and Southern states in the past we've always been able to scavenge enough food and supplies to keep us going but we underestimated the destruction that’s been going on up here and now we can’t find anything of use. This land has been blasted and poisoned to death. Most of the towns are rubble and the countryside is speckled with no-go areas flooded with lethal levels of radiation. I have a Geiger Counter rigged up to Angel that tells me if I’m driving too close to radioactive areas and so far I can’t take us anywhere near most places because of nuclear waste or poison dust-clouds. This means I have to constantly make long detours into other counties and that is why it takes us forever to get anywhere. 

The sky is a constant gray wherever we go and we have to breathe through anti-asbestos construction masks if we step outside the RV even in "Safe" areas because of the smog. All the northern farmland has been killed by acid rain and scorched by fires into gummy black tar and the towns that are still standing have already been stripped of food and anything useful by desperate humans or starving animals. Local water supplies have either run dry or been contaminated and there are shrivelled corpses hiding in every home. Some of the bodies are sitting out eerily on sun-porches or curled up around dead children in musty beds of skin and dried shit. The air stinks of smoke and sewers and it's so so quiet here. Only the sound of the wind blowing and timber creaking. Even the birds are gone.

Honestly I had no idea the North-East was this total dustbowl or I wouldn't have driven us here but we really wanted to see if Canada was livable. Now we're stuck: boxed in between hazardous zones and scavenging the shattered shops and homes of the dead. It's getting so depressing and dangerous that Ryan and Frank aren’t allowed to help anymore. Not that we ever find anything worthwhile. These are fun times, huh?

The situation would be a lot less desperate if it wasn't for a couple of outlying factors. Ever since we picked up Gerard and his friends our supplies have been stretched extra thin but unfortunately we didn’t realize exactly how thin until a few days ago when we discovered that three of our biggest water containers had leaked during storage and soaked through a large sack of rice - rotting the rice and drying up the water in one ugly incident. We hadn’t been rationing water properly because we thought we had a lot more left than we actually do and like I said we’ve always been able to root out fresh supplies before. But now... I don't know how we're going to fix this. We’re trapped inside several hundred miles of lifeless dirt and concrete with no supplies and hardly any fuel for Angel‘s engine. We’ve got five small bottles of drinking water left between the seven of us and very little food and it's only going to get worse. Every house and store we come across has already been cleaned out, burned down or is full of rotten muck. So we should turn around and drive back to greener pastures right? Nope, we can't do that either because all of the abandoned vehicles and gas stations up here with Angel’s fuel have either been wrecked, drained dry or torched and she doesn’t have enough gas left to get us back West or down South where there were more survivors and supplies and less radiation. To be honest, I think we’re screwed. I think we might finally die out here on the same open roads that I love so much and I’m starting to panic now. We can’t keep going much longer.

***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

If I don’t think about the past then it doesn’t hurt and it’s usually best if I let myself drift into a blank, unfeeling state of mind where I barely think at all. Brendon is here to tell me what to do and help me do it, and if I get too sad or too scared I have James to give me pills that let me sink gladly into hypnotic numbness safe inside Brendon’s hugs. I tell James that the meds make me feel less depressed, but really they just make me feel numb and it‘s so much better than being in pain. 

I am a shadow on the wind wrapped in cotton wool and I like it that way. Being too conscious is hell and sometimes I can still see the beautiful face of the man I loved burning to ashes in my dreams. Brendon is the only good thing in my world now and I need him to keep me breathing which he is more than happy to do. I don’t love him like I loved Nick, of course I don’t and I never will. But he’s so similar to me that sometimes he feels like my happier reflection. I don’t exactly feel alive these days but that's okay. I exist. I talk, I eat my rations, I read, I sleep, I try not to cry, I remember the good times and the bad ones. I take my pills when I'm told. Even though Brendon has shown me why I should keep on living, I’m not sure I know how. 

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

Too much time has passed for me to keep proper count of the days. The sky outside seems dark all the time here and there’s a constant stench of ozone and death on the dusty wind. We're down to our last shared bottle of water, each of us only allowed a few small sips a day and fuck, I’m so thirsty and tired. If only it would rain then at least we could gather water that way even if it's tainted with acids, but the clouds won't co-operate.

This afternoon we spent spent three hours digging into an old cafe half-buried in a rock-slide in search of food and drink and all we found were a few dented cans of tunafish and a bottle of Pepsi. Not much to share between seven grown men but we ate what we dared so we could save the little food left in the RV for a more desperate day. The tins were swimming in brine to preserve the gray chunks of fish and I swallowed the salty liquid just to have something else to drink but it only made me feel ill. I don't want to die from dehydration and starvation. Hell, I don't want to die, period! But suddenly the open road is starting to look just as bleak and fatal as a city prison and I'm so goddamn scared.

Every day from dawn til dusk Patrick and James search the dust-clogged streets and fields outside for scraps of food, water or fuel and find almost nothing, returning at night too exhausted to do anything but swallow their pitiful rations and fall asleep. Brendon has taken over Patrick’s night-time driving duties and coaxes Angel along to one empty useless town after another on as little gas as possible. All of us are tired, hungry, dirty and snappy so it’s really not a good time to be stuck together inside an old RV for days on end, but it's not like we have a choice. We have to keep moving in the hope of finding someplace better.

Meanwhile I’m trying to deal with Frank losing his mind even more so than usual. Stress and dehydration have made his mental problems worse and he’s hallucinating all the time now, talking and gesturing to the invisible monsters in his head as if they are physically standing in front of him. It freaks everybody out and there's nothing we can do to calm him down except fill him with tranquillizers which knock him out for a few hours.

Sometimes he'll have a good day and behave more or less like his old healthy self and we'll play card games and he'll strum beautiful old songs on Patrick's guitar and snuggle up to me in bed and kiss my face and neck until I'm hard and aching to let him fuck me but we've got no privacy so I have to excuse myself and jerk off in the toilet cubicle like a deviant. 

On other days his illness takes over completely and it's just non-stop craziness that breaks my heart. He talks to himself and argues with ’Her’ for hours, holding disturbing conversations that the rest of us can only hear one side of and if he doesn’t like what She says he’ll hide in a bunk with his head under a pillow or pace around the RV like a caged animal muttering under his breath. Nothing I say or do calms him down when he's like this and I feel like I'm watching him fall into a deep black pit and I don’t know how to get him out. Now we're hungry and thirsty all the time he’s getting worse every day and I can see how much it's killing him inside. A couple of times he’s even gone sleepwalking and written nasty, violent things on the RV walls in black marker. Yesterday I woke up with the words ‘SUCK RAZORBLADES FAGGOT!’ scrawled on my pillow in his handwriting and when he saw it he got upset and begged me to forgive him which made me cry. His own mind is torturing him and it's painful to watch when I love him so much. I want to save him from this hell and when he cries and screams for his demons to go away I want to fight whatever’s hurting him and destroy it forever but I can’t kill what I can’t see! I worry that the voices in his head will break him completely at some point and make him hurt himself or someone else. If he took his own life then I couldn’t stand to be without him. I would die too, I know it. I would have no reason to keep fighting.

***  
**BRENDON'S P.O.V.**

The crash is my fault. I fucking doomed us all. 

I’m supposed to be watching the road and I am, I swear, but Patrick's night-vision goggles are heavy and warm and the road is so empty and silent, totally deserted except for us. The hum of Angel’s engine rolls on sleepy and safe and Ryan is riding shotgun to keep me company wearing my blue hoodie over his street clothes. He’s playing with the radio, only picking up static and his beautiful eyes are tired but he’s telling me a dumb joke and I glance away from the road to look at him for a second. ONE SECOND, but that's all it takes. While I’m looking at Ryan I don’t see the flash of metal whip out across the road in front of us with rows of sharp steel spikes along its back until I’m pretty much driving over it. BANG!! BANG!!! 

The RV’s tyres blow as the spikes chew through them and we go spinning out of control. Ryan screams as we swerve across the road on shrieking axels and the steering wheel jumps out of my clenched hands as sparks light up the asphalt. My stomach lurches with terror and the stink of burning rubber fills the air. Grabbing the wheel back, I floor the brake pedal and slam the RV to a shuddering halt that throws Ryan and me at the windshield. His seatbelt saves him but mine is broken and I'm smashed against the wheel. All the breath is slammed from my lungs and my head hits the dashboard face-first, shattering the goggles into my skin. I think I black out for a few seconds and when I come to my vision is completely fucked and my ears are ringing. People are shouting and crashes and bangs are coming from the back of the RV. I have no idea what just happened. Is everyone alright?! Did we crash? DID I CRASH US?!

Slumping backwards, majorly dizzy, I peel the broken goggles off my face and everything is crimson red. I must be in shock because I can't feel any pain but I’m nauseous and can’t see for shit. My vision's all blurry and something warm and wet is pouring down my face, running into my mouth. It tastes like coins and nosebleeds. I turn to look at Ryan and can barely see him.  
“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice sounds weirdly choked up and far away.  
“H-Holy shit!” Ryan gasps shakily, “Brendon, your face! You’re bleeding!”  
With shaking hands I feel my slippery jagged cheeks, cutting my finger on something sharp, and then freeze as the driver’s window suddenly shatters beside me and a knife-wielding fist flies in out of the darkness! My useless seatbelt is slashed in half and rough hands drag me out through the broken window and throw me into the road! My head smacks hard against the concrete and for a moment I do feel pain - a LOT of pain - before everything goes black and I don‘t feel anything at all.


	17. Hearts of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------------(NEW CHAPTER! Hope you like xx)------------------

**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

Just before the crash I'm sitting with Frank on our bed playing Go Fish with some old playing cards and trying to ignore the rumbling ache in my stomach. I’m not really paying attention to the game but cards help Frankie focus on reality and tonight he’s actually winning for once. He hasn’t mentioned his voices at all this evening and he’s even smiling right now which is a miracle considering our situation. The terrible injuries to his face have healed up great since we left the city and his shaved hair is growing back too. I wish he wasn't still so thin and starved-looking but then again we're all on the skinny side right now. What I wouldn't give for a pizza. 

Ray is reading in his bunk and Patrick and James are crashed out on vacant mattresses, sleeping in their clothes and workboots. Patrick still has a dust mask pushed up into his scruffy hair and is mumbling in his sleep. Brendon and Ryan are riding up front in the driver’s cab and we’re driving steadily onwards through the dark. Everything is as normal as it gets around here.

Then suddenly two deafening bangs make the whole floor shake and the RV lurches madly, bucking upwards and crashing back down. Rubber squeals and metal shrieks and we swerve violently to the left so fast that Frank and I are thrown to the floor and Patrick and James wake up in a panic. Frank grabs my hand as the RV spins crazily and Patrick staggers to his feet and tries to reach the door to the driver's cab as the air rings with the screech of torn tyres. A second later we stop with such a hard jolt that Frank tumbles backwards onto James and Patrick is slammed head-first into the door. The engine stutters into silence and for a moment stillness reigns, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing. 

“What the hell was that?!” Ray gasps crawling out of his bunk, “Did we hit someone?!”  
“Dunno,” I answer shakily, watching Frank nervously grab the nearest pillow and hug it tightly, his eyes as huge as planets. “Are you okay, Frankie?”  
“Patrick!” James cries, scrambling over to where Patrick is lying motionless on the floor with his eyes closed. Cautiously the medic touches his nephew’s hair and his fingers come away bloody. “Oh Jesus... open your eyes kid,” he begs anxiously, "Patrick, open your eyes.."  
Thankfully Patrick manages to obey and blinks a few times in confusion before trying to sit up. “What happened?” he groans, “I’m gonna kill Brendon if he's totalled Angel.”  
“Well, I see you’ve still got your priorities straight,” James smiles, turning Patrick’s head to find the source of the bleeding, “You're alright, this doesn’t look too serious.”  
“We should check on Brendon and Ryan,” I remind them, standing up on wobbly legs, “They could be hurt or-”

My next words are cut off as the rear door bursts open to reveal a group of strangers standing outside in the cold night air. Four men - all tall, muscular, types - wearing bio-hazard suits and gas-masks over their shaved heads and pumped muscles. They look mean as fuck. My first thought is ‘Hunters!’ but these guys aren’t in Hunter uniforms, and it’s doubtful they're Military either as without any warning at all they charge into the RV and attack.

The first thug to climb aboard slugs me in the jaw with a fist like a sledgehammer and everything lurches to one side as I hit the floor hard. Lying on my back counting stars and spitting blood, I can only watch as Mr Sledgehammer Fists ties my hands together with wire in front of me while his buddies attack my friends. Scuffles and shouts surround me but my vision is all fucked up and everything behind my attacker is just a blur. He jabs something sharp into the back of my hand, a sampling needle from a medical scanner, and it quickly bleeps ‘Negative’ to say that I don't have the Virus which is not news to me. Satisfied I'm clean, Sledgehammer Fists tosses the scanner to someone else and quickly drags me out of RV by my legs into the cold. The door frame scrapes the back of my head and I’m thumped down on the icy road in my pyjamas and socks with my heart in my throat. What the fuck is going on? Where's Frank?! 

Sledgehammer binds my ankles together and I open my mouth to cry for help but before I can make a sound he punches me swiftly in the chest and then I can barely breathe, let alone talk. Gaping and gasping for air, I stare like a stunned deer as hazard suits and flashlights thunder in and out of our mobile home and then Sledgehammer picks me up and throws me into the back of a huge growling pick-up truck before climbing in after me and aiming a clenched fist at my face. “If you scream or try to run I’ll bash your skull in, ya hear?” he snarls through his gas-mask. I nod in breathless terror as my bruised lungs ache and he grunts and jumps back into the road. Coughing hoarsely, I push myself up off the metal truck floor into a sitting position and peer over the side. 

The first thing I see is Frank crouched near the RV's rear bumper shaking his head and muttering tearfully to himself as another huge thug, this one with a tattooed neck, ties his trembling hands together. He's probably talking to one of his invisible people and unfortunately the kidnapper has no patience for the noise and brutally thumps him to shut him up. I flinch, my eyes swimming, as Frank slumps to the ground and gets scanned ‘Negative’ for the Virus before being dumped in the truck beside me where he tumbles sideways into my shoulder. His wide green eyes are punch-drunk and terrified and I want to say something comforting but all my energy is going into dragging air back into my crippled lungs.

Our friends manage to put up a bit more of a fight against the masked hijackers and James flattens one of them with two quick punches that break the larger man’s nose. Unfortunately this only makes the medic more of a target for the thug’s friends and they shove him to the ground and kick him mercilessly before turning on Ray and Patrick.

I can’t stand to watch anymore so I close my eyes and they are still squeezed shut when another body is tossed into the truck. I don't want to look but I have to and it turns out to be Brendon. In the faint glow from the truck's headlamps his entire face is slick with crimson blood and there are sharp splinters of plastic and glass imbedded in his wet skin. He's not moving - he looks dead! “Brendon?” I blurt before I can stop myself, instantly biting my tongue, but Sledgehammer is too busy right now to come and crush my skull. 

In a couple more minutes Ray, James and Patrick have all been dragged from the RV, scanned and herded into the truck with us and only then do our kidnappers remove their masks...revealing the kind of hardened eyes and faces that usually inhabit maximum-security prisons. Two of them perch on the short metal walls of the back of the truck with us to act as guards while the others take the driver and passenger seats inside and start the engine. I keep waiting for Ryan to be loaded onboard like the rest of us but he never appears and I have to clamp my lips together to keep from calling his name. 

As the truck’s engine roars to life a fifth stranger appears out of the shadows by the highway and saunters over to a long metal strip of spikes lying across the middle of the road. I've seen something like that before. It’s a “stinger” and must have been thrown out in front of the moving RV to bust our tyres. Brendon wouldn’t have had time to avoid it. The fifth kidnapper rolls up the stinger, kicks it clear of the road and then jumps into the back of Angel as his gang mates drive us away in the truck. I get the feeling I'll never see our mobile home again and my eyes start to burn with misery. Sledgehammer sits down on what looks like a beer keg a couple of feet away from me and Frank and pulls a gun from somewhere on his hazmat suit. With a stone-cold expression he points the weapon at each of us in turn and the sight of it triggers a flashback to the Hunters torturing me in the city. I have to shut my eyes and swallow a rush of puke and anxiety as I desperately tell myself that it's not going to happen again. Please don’t let it fucking happen again! 

***  
The truck doesn't stay on the highway for long. After only a few seconds our kidnappers swerve sharply off the road and follow an overgrown dirt trail deep into a dark forest of dead trees. The driver flips on his hi-beams to better see the muddy ground and cold yellow light shimmers off a thousand frosty branches, showing me how well my friends are coping with this shit. Not much better than I am as it turns out.

Patrick and Ray are sitting together opposite Frank and I and they both look bruised and defeated, their wrists and ankles strapped together with more skin-splitting wire. Ray is gazing blankly into space with burned-out eyes while Patrick is biting his fingernails to shreds and shivering with cold, all the colour draining from his young face. I don’t think he’s ever been in a situation like this before and his eyes are silently screaming as he tries to make sense of what's happening. It probably doesn’t help that his only living relative is lying half-conscious on the truck’s freezing floor just a few inches away. James’s shirt is stained with blood and boot-prints and he’s struggling to breathe through a bloody nose and bruised ribs, his eyes screwed shut with pain. He hasn't been tied up but is obviously in no condition to get up and run away, and it's frightening to see him so damaged when he’s usually the one taking care of us. As I look at him I realize I'm breathing in short scared gasps that I can't control and I'm starting to feel dizzy while my churning guts do backflips. 

Frankie's head is still resting on my shoulder and his eyes are closed but I know he’s awake because he’s whispering under his breath: mangled words that are thankfully lost in the crunch and rumble of the truck‘s wheels on the frozen forest floor. He's wearing more clothes than me, a thick hoodie, jeans and battered converse, but his teeth are still chattering in the icy wind. I can only hope and pray that he keeps quiet and avoids a beating from our kidnappers because I don't think he'd survive it.

Brendon is sprawled on the crowded floor beside James, lying partly on top of my legs, and as we move deeper into the dead forest he's slowly regaining consciousness. The rattling truck and freezing temperatures are forcing him to come around and I watch his fingers twitch as his head lolls from side to side on the shuddering floor. Out of sheer force of habit I look towards James for help and see with relief that the medic’s brown eyes are open and he's also watching Brendon's damaged face in the flickering light.

Our abductors seem bored with the journey and have started talking amongst themselves and smoking cigarettes to pass the time. While they’re distracted James grits his teeth and inches close enough to Brendon to whisper something in his ear. Brendon is almost fully awake now and his blood-slicked face is tense and pained. Unless James tells him not to, he’s going to try and touch or open his injured eyes any second now and I'm cringing at the thought because if he does he might damage them further with several stray shards of plastic I can see stuck under and around his eyelids. 

At first he doesn’t visibly respond to whatever James is saying so the medic grabs one of his hands - which are also untied - and Brendon squeezes it so hard that James’s fingers turn white. The kid’s bloodied face is creased with pain and his skinny shoulders are shaking with smothered sobs of hurt or panic. Without his sight he must have no idea what’s going on but he clearly trusts James wholeheartedly because he doesn’t open his eyes. The blood on his cheeks is starting to freeze in the cold weather and his eyelids are like two crimson clots. He looks terrified and obviously wants to ask how badly he’s hurt but he's too scared to speak.

The truck suddenly lurches through a large pothole, jolting my gaze away from Brendon back to James and I tense with fresh dread because the medic‘s eyes are closed again and his hand has gone slack in Brendon’s grasp. Is he just passed out or is it worse than that? I didn't see how hard Sledgehammer's crew beat him in the RV. What if he's got internal injuries? What if he’s dying? If James dies then we'll lose not only a friend and Patrick’s only family but also the person who takes it upon himself to look after the rest of us without expecting the same care or attention in return. Without James I’ll be the oldest person left in the group and I can’t stand the idea of being in charge: I’m already out of my depth just caring for Frank. There's no way I could look out for everyone else too. I can’t fight our kidnappers, I can’t fix injuries and I don’t want to carry the responsibility of coming up with a crazy escape attempt. I can’t protect us from a world this big and bad. I can’t save us. I don’t even know how to save myself!

**RYAN'S P.O.V.** 

I’ve been walking through this mouldy forest for what feels like hours and I’m so cold I can’t feel my hands or face anymore. For all I know I’ve got frostbite and my nose and fingers are about to drop off in little black chunks. I hope not.

The tyre-tracks left by the evil freaks who kidnapped my friends are easy enough to see in the moonlight so I at least know where I’m going but I‘m not as fast as a truck and it‘s a very long walk. To stop myself fixating on the freezing chill or the fear crawling in my belly, I’m trying to fill my head with nice memories but it’s so hard and it;s getting even harder. It turns out that the eerie silence of night-time isn’t silent at all in a forest, even a dead one, and there’s a constant unnerving creaking of branches moving in the wind and dead leaves rustling. I find it creepy but I know Nick would have loved it. He adored corny horror movies and running around in a place like this with a flashlight and warm clothes would have been his idea of a fun night back when the world was safer. 

I'm no pussy though and following the trail of a gang of muscle-bound thugs who might break every bone in my body when I catch up to them doesn't scare me because fuck it, whatever happens, happens, and if I die here, I die. It’s not like I have much of a choice anyway. If I follow the path of the truck towards my friends then I might die, but if I stay out here alone without Brendon and the others then I will definitely die. I'm in the middle of an eerie bomb-blasted wasteland of cracked roads and bare trees where the sun can’t shine and the rain is full of poison, and without a second thought I decided to follow my friends because I honestly don’t care about my own life if I have to live it without them.

The fact that I wasn’t taken with everyone else is down to pure luck and my brain’s fight-or-flight instinct. When Brendon was dragged away by strange hands through the driver’s window after the crash I knew I only had seconds before the monsters out there discovered me too and without even thinking about it, I opened my door, dropped to the ground and rolled under the RV to hide in the pitch black shadows. Ominous thuds and cries of pain echoed around the empty road and I desperately wanted to help my friends but what could I do on my own? Nothing. So I covered my ears with my hands and scrunched up into a small, shivering ball on the asphalt, staring at the booted feet running around the RV and praying I wouldn't be found. I saw Brendon being dragged away unconscious and all of my friends get tied up and loaded like animals into the back of a black pick-up truck by large men in gas-masks. The truck's engine roared and they drove away and I thought I'd lose them forever but then I saw the vehicle turn off the highway into a nearby wood where hopefully it would leave tracks of some kind.

The noise of the truck faded into silence and I was left alone. It’s a strange feeling knowing you’ve been left behind, maybe forever, and it took me out of myself for a while, making my mind weightless and hollow. It was cold and filthy under the RV and my nose burned with petrol fumes that made my eyes water. I finally started to feel scared as the shock of the attack dulled and I bit my knuckles to distract myself with the warm pain. The gang of kidnappers had left someone behind to guard the RV and I could hear him rummaging around inside. In a little while he’d probably move Angel away and clear the road for future hijacking opportunities but I wasn‘t going to wait that long. While he was busy ransacking our pathetic supplies I crawled out from my hiding place and quickly ran off the road into the woods where I could follow the tracks of the truck. He never saw me.

Finding the truck’s path was easy since I knew more or less where its lights had turned off the highway but as for thinking up a plan to rescue my friends, I still don't have a clue. To be honest I don’t think anything I can come up with will be good enough to save everyone but I need to know that I did everything I could to help Brendon and the others since they‘ve done so much to help me. Even Ray. Whatever’s happening to Bren right now, he’s probably scared and I know he's injured and he might be worried about me too and I don’t want him to go through all that alone. He needs me and I need him too. He’s my mirror and my closest friend. He feels some of what I feel and he knows almost everything about me. I like to talk to him and see him smile, even though most of the time I can‘t smile back, and I want him to know that I’m alright, and I’m thinking of him. I want to hug him tight and not just because I’m cold. Against all the odds, I'm still not dead yet and I’m starting to think that maybe the universe doesn‘t want me to die even though I do sometimes. If I’m killed tonight on this crazy rescue mission then that’s okay because death will either take me to Nick or take me into nothingness and both options sound like heaven. I just hope I can find Brendon first because there’s no way I can leave him like this.

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

As we approach our kidnappers’ hide-out we pass under a perverted welcome banner: a hangman's gallows of naked human corpses strung up in the trees. If there is a real hell below us, it looks like this. The gruesome spectacle looms out of the darkness all at once like a macabre billboard and we all catch sight of it before we can look away. The sheer size and horror of the gore freezes me rigid, burning holes in my eyes and I want to cry, scream and vomit but I’m so stunned I can’t move. I can't even blink!

There are dozens of emaciated human bodies up there - both men and women - hanging from nooses of wire and rope, and swinging so low that their rotting toes barely brush clear of our cowering heads. It's a mass grave in mid-air and I want to believe that what I'm seeing isn't real, that it’s just a nightmare, that I can wake up and make it vanish, but the stench of death and decay is all too real. Some of the corpses have obviously been here for weeks and their green-gray flesh has been eaten away by flies and roaches, but other bodies look fresh and their dead eyes bulge out of blue faces, bruised lips contorted into silent death-cries. But the worst thing us that the bony torsos and shrivelled faces are torn and scarred with cuts, burns and bullet-holes and I realize these poor folk were tortured to death. One older man is wrapped up in razor-wire so tight that it’s cut him to the bones and the gruesome insanity hits me like a punch to the gut. What. The. FUCK?! WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!

Sledgehammer and the other thug riding with us barely glance at the bodies as we pass beneath them and their facial expressions don’t change. They are the ones who must have committed these atrocities and they're going to do the same thing to us! Shuddering with terror as the sights and smells of death soak into my skin, I feel like I’m gonna faint but at the same time I can't shut my eyes against the carnage. The dead surround me like an ocean and I watch, hypnotised, as their bony toes trail through the air and maggots and sticky globs of rotting fat blow free in the wind and drip into my hair. Inside my head I’m screaming like I‘m never going to stop.

Finally ripping my gaze out of the trees with an effort that makes me puke in my mouth, the first thing I see is Ray with his hands frozen by his lips like he's going to be sick but is too crippled by shock to even do that. He looks hollowed-out and empty, he looks…stopped. Like his eyes have died, like the light inside him has been snuffed out and even though he’s still awake and breathing he doesn’t look alive anymore. He’s so stunned by our new death-camp reality that his mind is shutting out the world and I want to talk to him and bring him back before he slips too far away but I can’t form words and I’m deafening myself with silent screams. Biting my tongue so hard I taste blood, I force my eyes to stay out of the blood-stained branches and watch Ray disappear...

Until Patrick vomits loudly, splattering his jeans and boots with stomach water, and bursts into nauseous desolate tears that make my heart jump into my throat. He tries to smother his sobs behind his tied hands but Sledgehammer’s pal still gives him an angry slap that knocks him sideways onto the rattling floor. The poor kid isn't even dazed by the blow but he doesn’t try to get up again. Instead he hides his face and curls up crying on the freezing dirty metal with his fists bunched against his forehead like he wants to beat the image of hanging corpses out of his head. 

Fortunately for James and Brendon, they don’t get to witness the hanging massacre above us because neither of them can see right now. James is lying very still, either unconscious or dead, and Brendon is still blind with blood. His head is turned towards Patrick and he must be wondering why his friend is crying and why James is so silent now and I can see the anxiety and fear raging inside him. His injured face must be agony and not being able to see what’s going on is clearly making the whole situation even worse for him but he’s so fucking lucky he missed the rotting, sliced-up people in the trees. That gory open grave will haunt me for the rest of my life - even if my life ends tonight. 

The truck drives on and mercifully we leave the swinging corpses behind us. When they're gone from sight I can breathe and move again and let out a strangled scream that earns me a dirty glare from Sledgehammer. Ducking my head as tears splash my cheeks, I suddenly remember Frank is sat right next to me and whirl to see how he’s dealing with what we just saw. 

His green eyes are as wide and round as saucers and he’s staring up at the empty night sky like he can still see the corpses swinging above our heads. His skin has turned whiter than paper and he’s soaked in sweat even though it’s below freezing out here. Leaning closer to him, I wrack my brain for comforting words and find none, and realize that his whole body is shaking and his jeans are damp; he’s so terrified that he's wet himself. He’s talking nonsense again too and even though his trembling bound hands are clenched together in front of his lips, his voice is getting loud enough to attract attention... 

“Hey, quiet!” Sledgehammer snaps, glaring at Frank with murderous eyes, “Shut up, ya little freak!” But somehow I doubt Frankie can even hear him. By now we must have travelled half a mile from the banner of cadavers and the truck is currently rolling through a large grassy clearing towards an old house, but Frank is still staring upwards in horror and his eyelashes are wet and spiky with tears. I don’t think he can hear anything except the screams inside his head, and those might never stop.

“Frank, listen to me,” I whisper urgently, trying to get his attention, “Listen to my voice, love. It's Gerard. I'm here, I can protect you. Come back to me, Frankie, I‘m right here.”

“They didn’t know...” Frank rambles hoarsely, his eyes haunted, “They couldn’t get away and n-now we'll never get away, no, no NO!” His voice is getting louder with every word and suddenly he lurches up onto his knees and starts screaming at Sledgehammer. “And you don’t see ANYTHING do you!” he yells hysterically, “You’re all just EMPTY! YOU’RE FUCKING EMPTY AND YOU DON‘T SEE! YOU JUST DESTROY! You‘re drowning in blood, I know! I drowned in it too while She watched and She told me what you did! I KNOW WHAT YOU FUCKING DID!!”

“The fuck are you talking about, boy?” Sledgehammer growls, staring into Frank’s wide-eyed face. “Who cares?” the other kidnapper grunts, “He’s pissin' me off. Just shut him up already.”  
“Alright,” Sledgehammer grins. Standing up as the truck stops outside the house, he raises his pistol towards Frank and growls, “Shut yer face or you won't have a face left!”  
“He can’t!” I cry desperately, struggling to my knees, “He’s sick, he doesn’t know what he’s saying!”  
“Oh sure he does,” Sledgehammer smirks, cocking the gun, “An' I know how to keep him quiet...”  
“NO, DON’T SHOOT HIM!” I beg, my heart bursting as Sledgehammer snorts and aims the gun right between Frank’s eyes, curling his finger around the trigger.


	18. Drowning Lessons

**GERARD'S POV**

“NO!” I scream, looping my bound wrists around Frank’s narrow shoulders and dragging him backwards into my arms to protect him. “Please don’t shoot him! He can’t help what he's saying, he’s just scared!”  
"LEMME GO!" Frank bellows, writhing angrily in my arms, his eyes crazed and not very scared-looking at all, "YOU HAVE TO LISTEN! They knew what they wanted! They know everything I know and we tried! I tried! She helped but not now a-and She's punishing us and She won't make Him leave! They were right! I can’t shut it out! YOU CAN'T STOP IT! They see EVERYTHING! I can’t lie down, I can’t!"  
“Frank, stop it!” I plead helplessly as he twists and fights to get away from me, “Shhhhh, Frankie, please! You have to relax, sweetheart, you can‘t do this right now! Calm down!”  
“Time’s up,” Sledgehammer drawls, and he pulls the trigger.  
BANG!

When the gun fires Frank falls silent and his whole body jerks once and then falls back against my chest curling up into a tiny protective ball. He’s not struggling anymore and his eyes are wet and dazed. “Can‘t stop,” he sobs, “She won‘t go away... She never goes away.” He's stunned but he isn‘t actually hurt. The gun fired but no one was shot because just as Sledgehammer pulled the trigger Patrick threw himself against the bastard‘s legs and made him stumble. The bullet went wide and missed Frank and I by inches. 

I jumped out of my skin when the gun fired and chilled blood is flooding my trembling limbs as a heavy mix of terror and relief destroys the last of my shredded nerves. Strangely, Frank has had the opposite reaction and gone oddly calm but I've given up trying to predict his behaviour at this point. His latest episode is winding down and he’s exhausted and as helplesss as a child. He probably doesn't even remember the things he was shouting just now. Wrapping my quivering arms around his skinny chest, I watch tensely as Patrick manages to knock the gun out of Sledgehammer’s unsteady grasp and grab it, aiming it right at Sledgehammer’s big smirking face.

The other kidnappers in the truck instantly pull knives from their belts but it seems Sledgehammer was the only one with a gun and Patrick is holding it in clammy hands still tied together and turning blue with cold. He looks shaky and sick and Sledgehammer cracks an insane grin. “Go ahead boy,” he crows loudly, “Shoot me if you dare but it won’t help you and your friends get outta here. No one gets out of here, kid. So come on, take the shot. Let's go, you little fucker! Shoot me!”

The dumb thug isn't scared because it's so obvious from Patrick's frightened face that he's not going to fire the weapon. Patrick's a sweet guy and has probably never hurt another human being in his life. He isn't going to start now, he's not capable of it and everyone in the truck knows it. Sweat glistens on his forehead as his breath frosts in the frozen air and his fingers tremble around the gun's trigger, his frantic eyes glossing over with tears...  
BANG!  
The second blast is deafening and everyone in the truck flinches bodily. Patrick drops the pistol in open-mouthed terror, convinced he's just put a bullet in Sledgehammer’s brain but it wasn’t Sledgehammer’s gun that fired, it was a shotgun. A shotgun being aimed up at the night sky by a towering blond man in a long leather coat. He is standing in the doorway of the large dark house beside the truck.

“That's enough!” the man bellows, stabbing the shotgun’s barrel at the moon as he strides towards us, “What the hell is going on out here?” Our kidnappers immediately put their knives away, looking sheepish, and Sledgehammer moodily grabs his pistol back and clambers out of the truck leaving Patrick pale and shaking on his knees. “Sorry sir,” Sledgehammer grunts as he walks up to the blond man, “I know we were spose to bring 'em back without any trouble but-”  
“But nothing!” The blond man roars, grabbing Sledgehammer’s collar and yanking him close enough to spit the next words in his face, “How the fuck did a bound captive half your size manage to get his hands on your weapon?” 

Sledgehammer steps back with a scowl and points accusingly at Frank, “That little shit was yellin' his head off with a bunch of crazy talk and I wanted to shut him up so I got out my piece and -”  
“And it never occurred to you to put a gag on him?”  
“Well, uh, no.” 

Sighing in annoyance, the blond man passes the shotgun to his henchman and pulls a long thin flashlight from his leather coat, “Alright, let’s see what you’ve brought me,” he sighs, marching up to the back of the truck, “What were they driving?”  
“A black RV,” Sledgehammer reports sulkily, “Big clunky piece of junk. We bust its tires and left Johnny to take care of it.”  
“Anything of use inside?”  
“Some hospital grade drugs, morphine and a ton of other stuff. We brought that back with us. No food.”  
“Hmmm.”  
With a violent glint in his pale eyes, the man in charge unhooks and lowers the truck’s tailgate to get a better look at us. Shining his flashlight in our faces one by one, he examines us coldly like we’re cattle at a meat market. “Is that one dead?” he snaps, flaring the light across James, “I don't want corpses in the house. Somebody check him.” A tall skinhead thug with prison tattoos on his face obediently drags James out of the truck by his ankles and carelessly drops him on the ground with a thud that makes him groan loudly and open his eyes. “Nah he ain’t dead,” Sledgehammer observes pointlessly, “And I found a medic's ID with his face on it in their RV. I think the drugs are his. Might be useful.”  
“Perhaps,” the boss mutters with a sadistic sneer. “Cut their legs free and bring them in but keep their hands tied and put a gag on the loud one. If you can't keep them under control I‘ll shoot you myself.”

***  
The killers hide-out is a large ranch-style farmhouse with three floors, a shed out back and a wide rickety porch. The front door has been reinforced with steel plates and the entrance hall inside is lined with worn oak panels and faded peach wallpaper that makes it look like an old dame’s retirement castle. Somehow I doubt the original owner is home these days. The hallway is lit with a haphazard spread of paraffin lanterns and bundles of cheap glowsticks and the walls are covered in mounted oil paintings by several different artists that don't match and look like someone just robbed an art gallery. The windows are blacked out by heavy velvet drapes spotted with stains and condensation and the air is warm and thick and smells like cheap perfume, sweat, wood-smoke and blood. The front door slams shut behind us and chills skitter through my bones. If my stomach had anything in it right now I'd probably be puking with fear.

The heavy-handed brutes drag and push us down a long corridor into a large dining room and shove us to our knees in a line on the hard wooden floor. Loud thrash-metal music booms through the ceiling above us and I can hear the distant moans of sex between a man and several women. How many people live in this slaughter house? How many of us are going to die tonight? 

Shuffling closer to Frankie who is kneeling gagged and trembling a few inches to my left, I poke him gently in the side with my elbow and he looks at me gratefully, his beautiful eyes tired and red. I can’t dwell too much on my own imminent death when I still have him to worry about. He's literally my whole world and I’ll protect him with my last breath, no matter what happens to us tonight. In this terrifying moment all I want to do is cuddle him and tell him that it’s gonna be okay because wherever we go, even if we die here, at least we'll be together right? The rocky waves of fear tying my stomach in knots ease slightly when I look into Frank's adorable face, my heart swelling with love for him... until Sledgehammer smacks the back of my head and forces me to look away and my anxiety level shoots up so fast I think my guts are going to drop through the floor. 

This room is huge, several meters long, and lit by threatening storm lanterns in glass cages tinted red. The walls are lined with shelves full of tools, rope, coils of wire, plastic bags, buckets and exotic-looking knives and the only furniture is a long oak table scratched and scored with a hundred jagged scars and splashed with reddish-brown stains. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Cold sweat trickles down my back and I can't catch my breath. My eyes sting and my head is aching. I don't want to die here, I don't want to die, I don't!

The blond man orders Sledgehammer and Mr Prison Tattoos to stay put while the other henchmen disappear behind closed doors. For a long, tense moment nobody speaks and the blond man stares down at us icily while his cronies smoke cigarettes and loudly crack their knuckles. Frank is trembling so much his breath is shaking and chewing nervously on the dirty cloth gag between his teeth, his eyes flickering back and forth between me and an empty space in the corner where I assume She is watching him and waiting for the end. 

Patrick is kneeling to my right looking just as terrified as I feel with his blue eyes full of tears and his face pale in the room's sinister red light as he stares in horror at the blood-stained table before us. Along from him Brendon is cowering on his hands and knees as good as blind with his injured eyes glued shut under a crusty mask of dried blood. The poor kid is trembling and flinching at every sound around us and I can't imagine how much worse this is for him when he can’t even see what we’re up against. He has no idea what's coming and he can’t prepare himself for it, not even a little bit. He doesn't even know that his best friend Ryan isn't here and is probably already dead. Further down the room Ray is kneeling still and silent with his head hanging in defeat with his face blank and stony. His eyes are closed and he hasn't made a sound since we were taken from the RV. It's like the will to live and breathe has been sucked right out of him and he looks completely resigned and ready to die without a fight. He's totally given up and I hate him for that.

On Frank's left, James is sitting hunched over with one arm wrapped gingerly around his stomach, his gentle eyes blurry with concussion from the beating he took in the RV. He looks very small and vulnerable right now and the blond torturer is eyeing him maliciously across the room like a tiger waiting to pounce on injured prey. 

The metal music thundering through the ceiling abruptly switches to downbeat Nirvana-esque rock and Frank whimpers, shutting his eyes on some painful memory. As if on cue the blond man points at James and Sledgehammer kicks the medic sharply in the back, shoving him forwards onto his knees towards the boss. James groans loudly and hangs his head panting and wincing until the blond man growls “Look at me you little shit!” 

With a weary sigh, James slowly looks up to face our captor and very deliberately raises his right hand at the same time to flip him off. The torturer's face darkens with fury and I flinch in anticipation of him pulling out a gun and blowing James's brains out but instead he just cracks a humorless smile and hisses, "Brave fella, aren't you.”  
Leaning back against the table, he gives Sledgehammer a nod and the towering henchman viciously yanks James's raised arm behind his back and twists until the medic howls with pain.  
“Stop it!” Patrick shouts angrily, his fear fleeing in defence of his uncle, “Leave him alone you bastards!” Oh crap.  
“Shhh Patrick, its not worth it...” James begs through gritted teeth but it's too late and Prison Tatts storms over and punches Patrick square in the face, knocking him down with a bloody nose. Determinedly, Patrick scrambles up again and Prison Tatts brutally kicks him to the floor and plants a booted foot on his chest, pinning him down until he stops struggling. James looks back at the blond torturer on the verge of tears and whispers something I can't hear, his voice shaking. “All in good time,” the killer replies.

Frank is still trembling like crazy, his pale face turning green in the sour light and I’m worried he's going to vomit and choke on his gag so I shuffle closer to him while Sledgehammer is busy with James and press my shoulder against his, whispering comfort in his ear to try and calm him down and kissing his sweaty hair. He leans into me still trembling and buries his face in my neck, closing his eyes against the world that wants to hurt us so much. I can feel the vibration of his anxious heartbeat hammering through his skin and his tears quickly soak the collar of my shirt.

“What's your name?” the blond man barks at James.  
“I... uh, James.”  
“Are you a smoker, James?”  
“Huh?” the medic asks in confusion and Sledgehammer twists his arm again almost to breaking point, “OWW! Fucking stop!”  
“Are you a smoker?” the blond man repeats icily.  
“Yes!” James gasps in agony.  
“Cigarettes or cigars?”  
“I-I guess both, I dunno!”  
“It’s been a very stressful day for you, James. Would you like a cigar now?” the boss asks.  
“What?”  
“Would you care for a smoke?” the blond man rephrases, casually fishing two slim pre-cut Cubans and a steel zippo lighter out of his coat. He places the cigars between his lips and lights them both with a bright flame before removing one and holding it out while puffing quietly on the other. “Do you want this?” 

James blinks in disbelief and his pained eyes stare at the smoldering Cuban as its warm smoke curls into his nose and lungs. “You‘re joking?” he asks uncertainly.  
“I assure you I am not. So tell me you want this or my friend will snap your arm in two!” the boss snarls. Sledgehammer savagely jerks James’s arm again so hard that I hear a bone or tendon in it crack and the medic bellows with pain.  
“What‘s your answer?” the blond man demands.  
“Yes!” James cries hoarsely, tears making his voice shake, “Yes I w-want it!”  
The boss grins so wide his face nearly splits in half and gestures at Sledgehammer who uses his free hand to grab James's left wrist and shove his trembling hand palm-up towards the blond man. “W-What are you doing?” James stammers fearfully.  
“You said you wanted this,” the blond boss crows and he stabs the fat fiery end of the cigar deep into his victim's flesh. “ARGHHH! FUCK!“ James screams, tears flooding his reddened eyes as he tries in vain to pull his burning hand free, “You bastard fuck!”

Bile boils in my throat and I turn away queasy and trembling to see Patrick fighting to free himself again. He's got a lot of heart but he doesn't stand a chance and the thug looming over him starts to laugh as he hits Patrick harder and harder, blacking his eyes and splitting his lip, kicking him viciously in the ribs and making him choke and cry, fighting for every breath. All this commotion has Brendon whimpering in blind terror with his bloodstained hands pressed over his ears and Frank is in floods of tears, salt-water cutting tracks in his thin face as he crams his clenched fists against his gagged mouth to smother his own heaving broken sobs. 

The blond man takes the other cigar out of his mouth and burns James again but this time the medic bites his tongue and doesn't cry out, sweat running down his face as he clenches his jaw and refuses to make a sound. With a frustrated grunt, the blond devil grabs a petrol-fuelled blowtorch off a shelf on the wall and fires it up, waving the roaring blue column of flame in front of James's petrified face. “Think you can stay quiet now?” he taunts. Wide-eyed with dread, James tries to duck away from the hissing jet of fire but Sledgehammer keeps him still and I don't want to watch anymore but I can't rip my eyes away. “What do you even want from us?” James cries desperately, flinching with every blow he hears landing on his nephew's body behind him, “Why are you doing this?!” The blond man rolls his eyes as if the answer is obvious. “Because it's fun,” he smirks, thrusting the blow-torch at James's hand and searing the skin off his fingers with the roaring flame. 

I screw my eyes shut as my guts lurch and James screams himself hoarse, the stench of burning flesh and blood filling the air. Frank throws his tied arms around my neck and crushes himself against me like he's trying to escape his body and flee into mine, burying his face in my chest and keening like a wounded puppy. I hug him as tight as I can with my arms still tied, rocking him gently as we both shake. Then James's cries fall horribly silent and I force my eyes open, releasing fresh streams of salty tears. He's passed out on the floor with a dozen sizzling crimson and black burns oozing in wide blistered strips across his left hand and wrist. Bruised and bleeding, Patrick stubbornly tries one last time to crawl over to his uncle but his attacker drags him effortlessly back and gives him a final solid punch so hard that I can feel the jolt of impact in my chest. It knocks him out cold. 

Brendon is sobbing brokenly into his hands, red droplets of tears mixed with blood running down his arms and neck, and Ray is still motionless in the corner wearing the same blank expression as before, like he's not even here. Like he can't see his friends suffering...

The blond man snaps his fingers and Prison Tattoos leaves Patrick's unconscious body and grabs Frank by the hood of his sweater, yanking him away from me. Screaming with panic, his terrified eyes are wide and uncomprehending as he claws the gag out of his mouth and wails my name, “Gerard!” Struck dumb with horror, I wordlessly reach out for him but Prison Tattoos slaps my hands away and lifts Frank off the floor by his neck like he weighs nothing at all while he kicks and twists helplessly in the air, scrabbling at the huge thug's fingers as they pinch like claws into his fragile throat. “GERARD! HELP!”

I jump to my feet but Sledgehammer is waiting for me to move and grabs me in a choke-hold. Pressure tightens like a noose around my neck as Prison Tattoos carries Frank over to the blood-stained table and holds him down, lifting up three long leather straps and quickly tying my sweetheart to the scratched stained wood. Mindless with panic, Frank screams and screams, kicking the table with his battered sneakers as the blond man grins in anticipation and slides a long sharp bowie knife out of his coat. I have to stop this, I have to save Frankie, but no matter how much I struggle and fight I can't get free and I'm choking. I can't reach him! I can't help! Oh god, please no!

The blond man slides the razor-sharp blade under the collar of Frank's hoodie and slits the heavy material in half, cutting his clothes open all the way down his chest so his pale thin torso is fully exposed. Sweat runs down Frank's white face and his ribcage jerks with panicky urgent gasps as he hollers and cries. Sledgehammer squeezes my throat so tight I can't breathe or speak and I start feeling dizzy. Then with a sadistic grin the blond man takes his knife and starts slashing long red gashes in Frank's perfect skin, criss-crossing his chest and stomach with wounds! Gasping and whimpering with pain, Frank doesn't seem to have the strength to scream anymore and his bloodshot eyes find mine as my lungs start to burn from lack of oxygen. My vision blurs and darkens at the edges and Frank stares at me helplessly, his green eyes drowning in agony and a heart-breaking childlike confusion over why I'm not able to save him this time. 

The last sensation in my weary body before I black out is a final breath leaving my lips in the shape of his name. '...Frankie.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------------------(i hope you guys are still liking this story, things are going to get a bit more depressing and a new character will be showing up soon. Let me know what you think! xx)-----------


	19. Suffer The Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hi sweethearts. A slightly shorter chapter today. Time to shake things up a little....)

**FRANK'S POV**

The demons, they found me, they finally found me! Now they want to make me scream. I'm already shaking and my eyes are full of water and scarlet when they drag me away from Gerard, away from my shelter, away my safe place, and make me lie down. I don't want to lie down! I can smell fire and blood and I scream Gerard's name but he doesn't come to get me, he doesn't hold me and tell me it's okay, that it's not real. He doesn't say 'Shhhh Frankie, I'll protect you, it's alright...' Now there's nothing! Where are you? Help me! All I can hear are the snarling monsters and Her laughing and laughing. Her grinning mouth is a wide red crack in a feral, animal face that wants to swallow me whole.

They drag me down to Hell and put me on a table. Hard scratched wood. The stench of blood and piss. A sacrificial altar. My eyes are blind with Her darkness and I scream so loud for Gee my chest hurts but he doesn't answer. Why won't he answer? Between the demons I suddenly see his face, pale and familiar, but he looks so sad and scared and it can't really be him because if it was him I would hear his voice. If it was him he would help me!

A demon cuts me open, first my clothes, then my skin, and it hurts so fucking much. I'm crying send screaming but no one comes to save me this time. Her laughter and His moans of pleasure ring in the stormy air and I want to cover my ears but my hands are tied down and I can't. My guts flip as the pain makes me vomit but my stomach is so empty only a mouthful of sour yellow water runs down my chin. I taste bile and sweat and I'm bleeding and everything is getting darker. Help me! Someone PLEASE!

The demon cuts me again and red splashes shine in the dark. He's drowning in the blood. We're all drowning! Blood sprays like rain and my chest burns and belly throbs as She shrieks in my ears and Gerard disappears. Now it's just me and Her and the monster tearing at me with its claws. I can feel my own warm blood leaving my body, running over my bones, soaking through my torn clothes and mixing with sweat, piss, puke... tears. I'm drowning, just like them, and I don't know how deep or how shallow the claws are cutting but it hurts so bad and my throat is ragged from screaming. Blood hits my face and the shadows around me swirl and spin into deep black pits and chasms of dying stars. It's getting harder and harder to scream. Harder to breathe. Harder to see. The demons roar in my ears and I feel so sick. My head fills with white and red and I'm either passing out or dying. I don't know which. “Poor little Frankie,” She chirps in a sing-song voice, “Poor little lamb....”  
Gerard, come back! HELP ME!

***  
**RAY'S P.O.V.**

I never wanted any of this to happen and I’m so tired of saying sorry. I'm sorry for getting Ryan captured and abused in the city and I'm sorry for losing him tonight. I'm sorry that Nick died on my watch and I'm sorry I didn't die with my own family long ago. I'm sorry for everything but it’s not enough. Apologies don’t bring the dead back to life. I'm so heavy with grief and guilt that I feel like I'm suffocating, like my lungs are full of cement, and it won’t ever get better because I'll never stop losing people, not until I'm the one who's lost. Not until I'm the one who's six feet under. 

I gave up tonight. I surrendered, I quit, and I can't bring myself to care. Life is just too painful now and I have no reason to keep fighting the inevitable if Ryan is gone. If I could stop my heart beating just by wishing it I would. I'm so sick of fighting against this world full of nightmares. Things will never get better than this, they will only get worse. I'm afraid to keep on living.

I only half-remember what happened after we were abducted by maniacs and Ryan vanished. The memories are fuzzy and dark and keep breaking and melting away. I remember the sound of people I know screaming but I couldn't help them. My eyes refused to see and my ears could barely hear their cries. Something in me turned to stone the moment I saw that broken twisted mass of corpses strung up in the trees. Our final destination. We're going to lose this fight. We always were.

SMACK!  
Ow! Pain, sharp and quick, hits my face and a rush of cold air stings my cheek. For fuck's sake, what now?  
“Ray!”  
Another slap and my vision bounces back into focus, my ears unclog and the numbness in my body splinters as the ground reappears under my body. What the fuck? Gerard is hitting me for some reason and he looks terrified and angry and sick with exhaustion. His eyes are red and his neck is badly bruised. “Ray! Fucking snap out of it!” His voice is a hoarse croak.

Sensation trickles back to me and I notice that the large hard room full of screams is gone now, replaced by a small gloomy gray space. I'm sitting on a squashy quilted floor, propped up against a soft padded wall and my head and neck are stiff and aching with tension and bruised muscles. My skin feels oily with sweat and dirt and there's a weird ringing in my ears. The warm stuffy air smells like metal and unwashed bodies. Gerard moves to slap me again and my right arm flies up and blocks his hand. “Hey!” my voice snaps and Gerard's bloodshot eyes widen with something like relief. “Ray, can you hear me now?”  
My lips form an answer without my permission: “Yeah.”  
“Then get up and help me! The others are hurt.” His voice is shaking and when I look past him to see where we are and what's going on my guts twist with fresh dread. Oh boy.

We're shut in what I can only describe as a padded cell: a windowless empty room with four walls and a floor completely covered in stained gray material like something out of an insane asylum. There's a lonely plastic bucket standing in one corner next to a small cardboard box and the only source of illumination is coming from a cheap children's night-light, the kind that runs on batteries, screwed into the wall opposite to where I'm sat. There is a small air vent embedded in the bottom of a clearly-locked door - which is also lined with padding - and behind Gerard I can see Patrick and Frank lying slumped on the floor a few feet apart covered in blood and barely moving. No one else is here. Well shit. 

Gerard swallows hard, his face pained, and crawls away towarda our injured companions. I follow him without enthusiasm, my arms and legs tingling with cramps. Our hands are no longer tied together. Probably because we're locked up instead. “Take care of Patrick while I help Frank,” Gerard orders bluntly, shoving the mysterious cardboard box at me, “They've left us water and stuff in there.” 

Grunting in acknowledgement I crouch over Patrick's body, my mind blank and weary, and gently roll him onto his back so I can see him better in the dim light. He groans quietly and half-opens his eyes which are swollen and black with bruises. Someone's beat him up pretty bad and his face is a puffy mess of red and purple. His nose is bleeding and his breathing sounds kind of rough, all asthmatic and wheezy, but at least he's awake. “Hey" I say tonelessly, trying and failing to fake a smile for him, “D'you think you can sit up?” He squints woozily up at me and doesn't answer so I grab his skinny arms and pull him into a sitting position, sliding him easily back against the nearest wall so he'll stay upright. He groans with pain at the sudden motion, weakly hugging his ribs and I apologise distractedly while rummaging in the box of crap our captors have oh so thoughtfully provided. 

Behind me Gerard is babbling away in the type of soft anxious voice people use to coax frightened animals into their reach, and I turn around to see Frank scrambling clumsily away from him, blood seeping through his torn clothes as he snatches his hand out of Gerard's outstretched fingers with a pitiful wail of fear. “No Frankie, it's okay. It's me, sweetheart,” Gerard comforts shakily, reaching out again in an attempt to touch his boyfriend's arm. Frank flinches back so hard he almost falls over, leaving a trail of blood that soaks quickly into the floor. Whimpering loudly with pain and fright, he cowers into a crouched position with his hands clasped in front of his face, looking so scared out of his mind that I have to assume he's hallucinating those monsters he's always talking about. His hoodie and shirt have been torn open and beneath the soggy flaps of material his stomach and ribcage are painted thickly with shining crimson blood still wet and dripping down over his bony hips to soak into his wet jeans. His pale face is slick with sweat and he's trembling all over, his uneven breaths coming in tiny sobs and gasps. “Frankie, shhhh, it's okay,” Gerard whispers, his voice breaking as he blinks back tears, “It's me, it's Gee... Please let me help you, baby. Please, you're hurt!” Frank fearfully shakes his head, his child-like eyes cloudy and wet and I force myself to turn back to Patrick and tune out Gerard's pleas, a hot lump in my throat. How he has the patience to deal with Frank's problems I will never know. He's a better man than I am. 

Pulling a cleanish-looking rag and a plastic bottle of water from the box, I take a quick drink and then wet the piece of cloth and use it to wipe the worst of the blood from Patrick's nose and mouth. He flinches at the touch and his bruised eyes are more alert now, even half swollen shut. After a couple of seconds he takes the rag himself and finishes the job, dabbing gingerly at his battered face while I look in the box again and find a six-pack of orange sodas waiting to be drunk. Holy cow, talk about luxury. Cracking open one of the bright shiny cans, I lick the bubbling orange froth which spurts over the top and gulp down the warm sugary beverage, quenching my thirst and letting the flavor and texture take me back to simpler, happier pre-Virus times that leave my eyes flooded with nostalgia. Fuck, it's all so long ago now. Burping quietly I finish the drink with a depressed sinking feeling and wipe my eyes and mouth, sitting back wearily against the wall beside Patrick and handing the kid a fresh can. He sniffles a little and opens it clumsily with dirty quivering fingers, drinking slowly. After a few sips he starts to cry silently, teardrops rolling over his bruised cheekbones and I remember with a jolt that his uncle isn't here in the cell with us. Neither is Brendon and of course neither is Ryan. Are all three of them dead now? Jesus. How long until we are forced to join them?

To comfort myself I let a list of possible suicide methods scroll through my head (poison, bullets, asphyxiation, jumping, hanging, electrocution, auto-decapitation, drowning…) but it doesn't help much because there's not really anything in this cell I could use to kill myself anyway and the ropey purple scars on my wrists can't be re-opened without a sharp blade. Shuddering miserably, I dig another water bottle out of the box and roll it over the soft blood-stained floor to Gerard who has finally managed to take one of Frank's hands in his without his traumatized boyfriend pulling away. “There now,” he murmurs under his breath, squeezing Frank's wet fingers gently, “It's alright Frankie, you're safe now. I'm here with you love...It's alright, don't be scared..”  
“You're... you're really h-here?” Frank sobs fearfully, his voice barely a whisper and his reddened eyes full of doubt. “Yes sweetheart, I'm here and I'm so sorry I couldn't help you before, I tried to, I really tried but they...the demons...wouldn't let me get to you. I'm so so sorry they hurt you Frankie! But it's okay now, please, let me make it better.”  
Sniffing back fresh tears, Frank looks down at his gashed and bloodied body and moans miserably before wrapping his arms around Gerard's neck and collapsing exhausted against him. Sighing with relief, Gerard wipes his eyes on his sleeve and strokes Frank's damp spiky hair as the younger man clings to him like a scared toddler, blood soaking through his clothes into Gerard's and smearing both their skin. 

***  
It doesn't take long for Gerard to rinse clean all of the wide but thankfully pretty shallow cuts carved into his lover's body and cover them in winding layers of clean bandages from a plastic packet of first aid supplies in the box of sodas and water. 

“So why would they give us drinks and bandages?” Patrick asks uneasily, breaking a long anxious silence. “Obviously they don't want us to die just yet,” I answer gloomily, “They want to make our suffering last as long as possible.” Patrick winces and looks away, licking dried blood off his lip, “So what, we’re supposed to keep ourselves alive just so we can be tortured to death?" Gerard shoots me an annoyed look. “What?” I snap at him, “You know it's true."  
“Is it true?” Frank asks in a small voice, abandoning a can of soda mid-slurp and looking up nervously. “I don't know,” Gerard says calmly, still frowning at me, “But making wild guesses isn't going to help us get out of here. Maybe try thinking up a way to escape instead, alright Ray?”  
Patrick glances anxiously between us for a moment and then gets slowly to his feet, stumbling over to the plastic bucket in the corner and unzipping his fly.  
Frank yawns loudly and rubs his face, his eyelids heavy and dark around the edges. Gerard leans over to kiss the top of his head and he smiles faintly in response and gingerly eases his injured body down so he can rest his head in Gerard's lap, closing his eyes.

“Where are the others?” I ask with a sigh, “Do we know what happened to them?” Gerard shakes his head and drains the last of Frank's drink. “No idea. One of those bastards choked me until I passed out and I woke up locked in here with you three. Patrick was unconscious and Frank didn't see where James and Brendon went... did you Frankie?” Frank shakes his head sleepily, “Nuh uh.”  
“They could still be alive though, right?” Patrick asks desperately, sitting back down with a pained expression, and I feel a stab of guilt for being so useless earlier. Out of all of us, including James and Brendon, I'm the tallest and strongest by far and I was about as much help tonight as a glass hammer.

I can’t think of anything to say so I stay silent and Gerard frowns, staring hard at my face as if he knows I’m pondering good old suicide. “Of course they could, Patrick. Don't give up. And Ray, you can't consider Ryan gone forever when he's only MISSING, not dead. He was never put in the truck with us which means he could have got away without anyone seeing him. Fuck, he could be on his way here right now to help us out, you don’t know!”  
“So what?” I grumble, “Even if by some miracle Ryan is still alive and he does find us and James and Brendon are okay and we do get out of here, why would he need me anymore? None of you need me, I'm the most useless person here besides Frank. No offence. In times of crisis I'm a fucking joke!”

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course we need you!” Gerard splutters, “Wherever James and Brendon are we know they're badly hurt and we're going to have to save them this time instead of the other way around. Patrick and Frank need us to look out for them and if Ryan is alive and lost outside somewhere alone then he’s going to need you, Ray, he‘s going to need all of us. He needs you and I need you. Me and Frank and Patrick all fucking need you, so don’t you dare go killing your selfish ass while there‘s still even the tiniest, stupidest chance we can get out of here. Don’t you dare leave us alone again!”

Gerard is trying so hard not to cry and seeing him upset makes me cringe but I can’t drag myself out of this black hole. I can’t make myself hope for the best about Ryan or anything else and I'm amazed that Gerard still can. “What makes you think we can get out of here at all?” I ask gruffly, folding my arms across my chest, “And even if we do, then what? The whole world is dead now! We’re all going to die so what difference does it make if I die in my own way and on my own terms?”  
“You just can't! Not yet!” Gerard yells desperately and the pure fear in his voice snaps me back into the real, emotional world for a moment because he sounds so horribly sincere, “Do you think I like being the only one left in charge whenever you have issues, Ray? Well I fucking don't! I’m tired of being the guy who has to drag everyone else out of their suicidal breakdowns when most of the time I feel exactly the same way and you owe me for looking after Ryan and Frank in the city after you stormed off when Nick died. So stop burying yourself in self-pity and help me out here! You aren’t dead yet! None of us are! Frank needs looking after, Patrick is hurt, Ryan is lost and I CAN’T DO THIS BY MYSELF! Not this time! If you really care about Ryan then you won’t give up on him yet. He needs you Ray, it was you all along he needed to act right for him, so fucking snap out of your funk!”

Wow and damn. I know Gerard is right but everything is so fucked up and hard and painful that I don’t want to believe anything he’s saying because death seems like an easier option. Tears prick my eyes but I can't really feel the sadness behind them; only a desperate wish to lie down and waste away. What if Ryan is still alive? I love him like a little brother and I don’t want him to be alone in this cruel violent world but on the other hand I also can’t stand the thought of discovering his body if he's dead. I’m so worn out, I’m so tired of loss, and I don’t know how much use I can be to anyone but Gerard is forcing me to face the truth even if I don’t want to.

Shakingy head, I watch the other guys watching me and I want to help them, I really do, but I also still want to say fuck it and give up and the giving up urge is very strong. To be honest, I think my heart and my courage and most of who I used to be died a long time ago. I just didn’t notice until now.  
“Okay,” I agree quietly.  
“Okay what?” Gerard asks sceptically, raising his eyebrows.  
“Okay yeah, I’m with you,” I add wearily, each word as heavy as an anvil on my tongue, “I’ll help you try to escape and I'll do whatever you need me to do for now but if Ryan really is dead and we find his body out there in the dark, then I'm done. I am done for good. If Ryan’s dead then I’m going to kill myself and you can’t stop me.” Gerard holds my gaze for a moment and I don’t know what he sees in my eyes but he bites back either tears or words that he doesn‘t want to say. Then finally he nods, just as noise suddenly rocks the cell and the padded door bursts wide open.

Two mean-looking bruisers are standing outside in a cloud of dope-smoke holding up two much smaller guys with black sacks over their heads and my heart surges into my throat as I feel a rush of adrenaline that makes me feel alive again. The masked smaller guys are dressed in shapeless overalls and can barely stand so I figure they must be prisoners like us. One of them could be Ryan!

Without a word the thugs shove their captives into the cell so hard they hit the floor and then slam the door shut again, locking it with a sharp CLICK and leaving us alone together. One of the new prisoners immediately sits up and tugs at the black sack on his face trying to get it off while the other lies unmoving nearby. In the gloomy light I can’t tell for sure if he’s breathing or not and every physical impulse in my body wants to rip the sack off his head and see who he is, but my mind is too scared of what I’ll find. He looks about average height and is thin like Ryan, but the loose folds of his overalls could be hiding his real size and weight. What if it is Ryan? What if it isn’t? 

The first newcomer manages to claw the sack off his head and sit upright, revealing his face, but my heart sinks when I see that he’s a stranger to me and I've never seen him before in my life. He looks about twenty-five and is skinny and scared-looking with small dark eyes and brown hair scraped back from his narrow face but he isn’t Ryan so I don’t really care. Gerard on the other hand is staring at this new guy with his jaw dropped and his eyes full of recognition and the guy stares right back at him in shock and amazement.  
“Gerard?!”  
“Mikey!”


	20. Hell

**RAY'S P.O.V.**

“Mikey! You’re... Y-You're alive?!” Pushing Frank off his lap, Gerard launches himself at the new guy and throws his arms around him. “How the fuck are you here?! How...? Ohmygod!” 

This so-called 'Mikey' returns Gerard’s hug, “Fuck, Gee!” he stammers, immediately using Gerard’s nickname, “I thought you were dead!”  
“Me too,” Gerard cries, his voice shaking with emotion, “I mean I thought you were. The house was fucking rubble, everything was gone. I saw Dad’s body and Mom…w-what was left of her...And I thought you must have been in there with them. The Hunters were coming back to finish off the street so I scrammed. I had no clue, Mike. Jesus Christ I can't believe this! I can't believe I left you there, I'm so sorry! Can you forgive me?”  
“Dude, shut the fuck up, there's nothing to forgive,” Mikey grins, gripping Gerard’s shoulders, “I thought you were dead too. Shit, I only survived cos I was out in the yard when the bombs fell. First explosion knocked me into the pool.i All I’ve ever done since then is run for my stupid fuckin life! I came back to the North East cos I thought since we grew up here maybe I‘d find someone I knew but…everyone's gone.”

“Gerard?” I interrupt, “Who is this?”  
“Oh sorry. Ray, this is Mikey. Mikey, Ray. That's Frank and Patrick. Mikey's my little brother.”  
“Your brother?” I blurt in disbelief.  
“Seriously?” Frank gasps, “That’s a pretty huge coinciden-”  
“Shit,” Mikey interrupts, finally noticing the second captive lying nearby on the floor. “Lemme get this sack off his face, we’ve gotta help him.”  
“Wait!” I gasp, grabbing Mikey’s arm before he can touch the newcomer. “Who is he? Do you know his name? Tell me his name!”  
“I-I don’t know his name,” Mikey stammers, “He only arrived tonight.”  
“Let him go Ray, what the hell?” Gerard snaps sternly.  
“Sorry,” I mumble, releasing Mikey's wrist and slumping back against the wall. My mind is full of death scenes. “But please don't make me look if it’s Ryan and he‘s…beyond helping.”  
“I promise,“ Gerard says flatly, “Go ahead Mikey.” With a wary glance at me, Mikey pulls the sack off his fellow captive’s face and I cover my eyes with my hand. 

“Oh,” Gerard gulps after a moment. “Is it Ryan?!” I ask desperately.  
“No. Frank, get off me for a sec, I need to help.” Biting my lip, I force myself to look at the prisoner’s ruined face and sigh. It’s Brendon.

***  
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Gerard asks, holding three fingers in front of Brendon’s bleary gaze. “Err… four?” Brendon slurs with a dopey grin, “No wait, three...hundred! Three thousand?”

Our kidnappers have been busy with Brendon tonight but instead of hurting him they've actually improved his condition. His face, which was peppered with glass shards and coated in blood after the crash, has been wiped clean and the worst of the cuts are covered in band-aids or sewn messily together. His right eye is bruised yellow, red and purple but it's open and working...mostly. His left eye is a mystery though, hidden under padded gauze and a thick strip of bandages wound tightly around his head like a bandana. He’s obviously been doped heavily with drugs too since he isn‘t in any pain and is acting annoyingly loopy, so stoned he can‘t even sit up.

“Was he like this earlier?” Gerard asks his brother. “Not exactly,” Mikey answers hesitantly, “But all the prisoners owned by the women here get pumped full of chemicals. He should be fine in a few hours.”  
“There are women here too? How long have you been in this place?” Gerard asks guiltily. Mikey shrugs and looks away, “A few weeks,” he mutters, “Maybe more. Hard to tell when they never open the drapes. But don't worry, they haven’t hurt me much because I belong to the girls. I’m their, ugh, I dunno, like their pet or something. They keep me in a closet most of the time or in here. They call this the Time Out Room. They only let me out if they want to clean me up and... play with me.”  
“Do they, uh...what do you mean play?” Gerard whispers, turning pink with embarrassed sympathy.  
“I know what you're thinking and yeah sometimes it's sexual stuff. It’s like some kind of warped game for them. They tie me to a bed and strip me and sometimes it’s just feathers and whips but other times... Well, it depends on their mood I guess. There's a bitch named Serena who likes to go down on me because she knows I don't want it and she gets off on rape. Giselle gets me high on cocktails of different drugs and watches me freak out. They’re all total fucking psychopaths but the men here are way worse so really I'm lucky. The men get most of the people they bring back from the road and the things they do to them... You don't wanna know what I've heard here at night. The screaming…” Shuddering, Mikey sniffs miserably and looks at the floor and Gerard puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, earning an odd look from Frank.

“About half an hour ago Giselle took me to her room,” Mikey continues shakily, “I thought she wanted to drug me again because she had a syringe in her hand but she was drugging this new guy instead.”  
“Brendon,” I remind him automatically.  
“Yeah. Brendon. She fixed up his face and put a few needles in his arms, said he was her new toy and I should make friends with him even though he was already passed out on her bed. To be honest I was just glad to see another person who wasn't a raving lunatic, I've been alone with these freaks for so long. I was starting to think maybe the Virus had finally killed everyone else! Anyway, Giselle played doctor with Brendon for a while and then Brian - one of the boss’ sidekicks - came in for a fight or a fuck with her and his pals brought us down here. Whenever they move me around they blindfold me with those sacks so I don’t know much about the layout of the house. I think there’s about nine people here not including us but it varies. They probably killed the last prisoner from the road just before you guys got here. Likely broke his neck, they do that a lot. That’s all I know really. I'm sorry, it's not very helpful.”

“No it is helpful,” Gerard assures him quietly, " Shit I’m so glad to see you, Mikes, I still can’t believe it!”  
“I know,” Mikey smiles, hugging his big brother tight, "Thinking you were dead and I’d never see you again hurt like nothing else, man. I love you Gee, I‘m just sorry we didn’t find each other sooner.”  
“Well that’s not exactly your fault is it. You didn’t mean for any of this shit to happen.”  
“I know but-”

“Yeah yeah, we got it,” Frank grumbles sarcastically, “You’re both glad to see each other and you‘re both sorry for leaving each other and you’re both not dead. It’s thrilling to hear it four times over it really is.”  
“Shut up Frank, this isn't a joke!” Gerard explodes, glaring daggers at his boyfriend, “Fuck you don’t know how to talk to anybody like a human being anymore do you? Well just for once can you fucking shut up when I tell you to?!”

Silence fills the cell and Frank’s face flushes with shame as his grouchiness vanishes like it was never there in the first place, and it probably wasn’t. He looks genuinely upset that Gerard has yelled at him and his eyes quickly flood with the tears that come so easily to him these days. Patrick sighs and lies down wearily on the floor beside Brendon, shutting his eyes on the drama. “I'm...I’m sorry,” Frank splutters, “I didn‘t mean it, Gee. Please don't be mad! I know it's no excuse but She wants me.to say this shit a-and I can’t always stop it!”  
“Okay,” Gerard says wearily, “I believe you. She's making you say stuff.”  
“Not just Her,” Frank cries, his eyes darting back and forth across the room, “Him too, the one in the dark, cos She knows and I don’t w-want Her to make the dark come back! Please don’t be mad at me, Gerard, I’m sorry! Don‘t be mad, please, I can’t take it if you’re mad!” On his way to being hysterical, Frank slams a curled fist hard into his own face once, twice, three times. “See, I can shut up!” he sobs, “SHUT ME UP!”

Gerard curses and quickly grabs Frank's wrists, holding him still, “Hey, don't hit yourself! I don't want that, love. I’m sorry I yelled at you okay? I’m not mad…not really. I know She, or they, make you do stuff and say what you don’t want to say but you have to stop hurting yourself no matter what they do, okay? Shit.”  
“What’s wrong with him?” Mikey hisses nervously. “We don’t know exactly,” Gerard sighs, wrapping his arms around Frank's heaving shoulders and pulling him into a hug with tired affection, “He gets confused and sees and hears things that make him crazy. I don’t know how to help him and the only friend we have who knows anything about medicine isn't here.”

“Who, James?” Brendon slurs drowsily, resting his head on Patrick's knees, “James is around. I saw him after you wen’ away. After the girl came.”  
“Was he okay?” Patrick asks quickly, sitting up with a jolt that must have hurt his bruises, “What were they doing to him?”  
“Was he upstairs?” Gerard asks quickly, “Where did they take you?”  
“Duh, a room,” Brendon sighs sounding annoyed, “But downstairs… bunch of candles…James was hurt and he was sad cos…uh...” the drugged kid trails off looking confused for a moment and then his good eye widens, “Oh, cos of Patrick! Hey Patrick, he thought you died, man.”  
Patrick frowns worriedly, “What? I mean yeah I blacked out after that guy laid into me but...”  
“Fuck!” Brendon moans in sudden misery, hiding his face in his hands, "This is all my fault guys! I crashed us! I crashed the RV and now they're gonna kill James and kill all of us cos of me!”

“No,” Gerard says quickly, “I saw what happened to the RV, Brendon, and it wasn’t your fault. No one here blames you.”  
“You don't?”  
“Of course not. Trust me. But listen, we need you to tell us where James might be and anything else you remember about this house. Then maybe we can try escaping, okay? Where were you and James taken? Where were the candles?”  
“It's no use…” Brendon sobs mournfully as his body relaxes towards unconsciousness, “’S’over now…”

“Hey, stay awake,” I order, grabbing one of his hands and crushing it in my own, “We need you awake right now.”  
“Oww,” Brendon groans, “Leggo! OW!”  
“That’s enough Ray!” Gerard grits at me.  
Releasing Brendon’s hand, I pick up my water bottle instead and take a long drink. I need to get a grip.

“They took us to…s-somewhere near the room w-where James got burnt,” Brendon sniffles, “My eyes were fucked up and I couldn’t see but someone dragged me back the w-way we came in and we went through, uh, t-two doorways. I could feel them on my back. They left me on the floor and I called for Patrick but he didn't answer cos you w-were all gone and a man told me he was dead and then I couldn’t... I couldn't do anything. My face h-hurt so much, everything hurt, and I heard James crying. A girl came and spoke to me and she pulled my eyes open and it hurt, like s-so much! I saw candles...a-and I could see James. He was tied to a chair. Some creepy guy was hurting him, I didn‘t know what to do!” Brendon has talked himself back to full consciousness and his bandaged face is wet with tears, “And where's Ryan?” He sobs loudly, stricken with sudden panic, “He was alive after the crash I-I know it! Where is he?”  
“We don't know,” Gerard admits reluctantly, “Safe I hope but he wasn't brought here with us.”  
“Oh god,” Brendon groans, curling up into a ball on the floor .  
“What else do you remember, Bren?” Gerard presses carefully, “Was James still alive when the girl took you away?”  
“Uh huh. He was tied up, m-maybe blindfolded too but still alive. I really liked James, y'know he was like family to me. He saved my life once! What’s gonna h-happen if he's dead?”  
“He's not dead!” Patrick snaps fiercely, “Don't say that!”  
“Don't yell at me, my head h-hurts!”  
“Guys, calm down,” Mikey says gently, “You've all been through a lot tonight.”  
Yeah you can say that again.

***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

I’m not stupid. I may be weak, easily wounded, even crazy, but I’m not stupid. So when the frosty tire-tracks on the forest floor suddenly turn squishy and dark with shit and blood, I don’t raise my head to look up for the source of the stains. Despite the cold numbing my nose and lips, I can still smell death in the frozen air and if I lift my gaze into the trees I know I'll see something like a cemetery minus the burials. The moonlight beams a set of chilling silhouettes onto the dirt beneath my feet and it takes all my willpower not to look up and see if my friends are up there, swinging silent and cold. Being this close to death is something that people always try to shield me from but even if they didn’t I wouldn’t be any less terrified than I am right now.

Quivering with nausea and dread, I start to run with my hands locked into a brim across my forehead so no glimpses of rotting flesh can enter my field of vision. Chills skitter over my clammy skin and my eyes burn with tears and I have to tell myself out loud that it's not Brendon or any of my friends strung up above my head. It’s not them, IT’S NOT THEM. It’s not anyone I know...

Stubbornly I keep my head down, watching the earth under my feet until the blood stains fade away and the dirt road is replaced by frosty overgrown grass waving playfully in the breeze. Only then do I stop running and cautiously look up, and find myself standing under a clearly-locked night sky in a deserted clearing with a large house looming out of the shadows in front of me. A few flickering lights are peeping out between cracks in the drapes covering the windows and I wonder if anyone can see me. I can hear the crunchy bass-lines of a nu-metal song playing somewhere inside the building and there's a familiar empty pick-up truck parked near the front porch. Bingo.

There is no one on guard outside the house and no alarms sound when I scuttle up to the high side wall and press myself flat against the mossy bricks. With my heart thumping wildly, I feel my way around the building and find the wooden trap-door for the cellar in the back yard. This place is in the middle of nowhere and I don’t think the freaks inside are expecting visitors anytime soon but the cellar door is still padlocked shut. Sighing steam into the frosty air, I pull my sleeves over my frozen hands and punch through the window of a small tool shed close by, scrambling in and fumbling blindly over a hundred dusty objects until I find a crowbar and a flashlight. Prying off the rusty padlock with the crowbar isn’t difficult even for my pathetic muscles and a few moments later I’m inside the house.

The cellar is musty and full of shadows but its thick stone walls feel oddly safe and I can smell coffee, woodchips and turpentine. The loud music is coming from one or two floors above me and I’m all alone down here. In the glow of the flashlight I find an old winter jacket to wear over my thin clothes and enough bottles of cheap booze, rags and matches to make a whole arsenal of Molotov cocktails if I needed to burn this evil place down. Maybe later. There’s also a pile of full gas cans and endless boxes of dried and canned food stacked all around me, not to mention crates of bottled water. I assume the monsters who live here ambush survivors on the highway on a regular basis, stealing their supplies and slaughtering them for fun. Murder and robbery is a horrific way to survive, but it obviously works well for these psychos because they have a big warm house with plenty of food and comforts while we’ve been driving around starving and miserable for weeks now. I hate these douchebags.

Before I decide to climb the cellar stairs into the proper house I sit down for a while to rest and force myself to eat half a box of cheese crackers with some water to wash it down. I still have the crowbar which is kind of like a weapon, and an exit route if I need it. I know Brendon and the others are in this building somewhere. They're not dead yet.

After stuffing a few random supplies into the oversized pockets of my stolen coat - crackers and chocolate, some matches, a bottle of water, a screwdriver and a roll of duct tape - I take a deep breath and find the stairs that lead out of the cellar. Wielding the crowbar and flashlight like swords in front of me, I climb each step with trembling legs and gingerly push open the wooden door at the top, stepping through it before I have a chance to chicken out.

I’m so tensed up my hair feels like it's standing on end but beyond the door there is nothing but an empty kitchen, dark and silent, and I let out a gasp of relief as my thundering heart slams into my ribs. It seems like this kitchen isn’t used much since there are cobwebs spun over the sink and dust bunnies on the floor but it’s well-furnished and pretty big with two other doors besides the one I just came through, both closed for now. The one nearest me is locked on my side with a metal bolt.

Tiptoeing towards the bolted door, I hear a deep male voice talking quietly on the other side and see a glimmer of light shining through the large keyhole. I want to take a peek at whoever is in the next room but the thought of several murderers lurking behind the door sends my anxiety into overdrive. Pushing a clammy hand against my chest, I can feel my heart hammering under my skin and my breath is hitching in my lungs as my stomach churns and blood roars in my veins. My head is getting light and I can hear a heavy pounding like drums. I’m still chilly from being outside but when I wipe my face with the back of my hand it’s slimy with sweat. I’m panicking, badly, and I need to stop!

No matter how suicidal I’ve been in the past, I’ve always been petrified of dying on someone else‘s terms and that fear hits me now as I drop to my watery knees on the kitchen floor. My stomach surges and I have to gulp some water to keep from puking all over the door. If I faint here my defenceless body could be found by a killer and I’ll end up dripping blood onto the black forest floor! I have to calm down! Shhhhh... calm down… calm down… Taking deep shuddering breaths, I rub my aching tummy and blink past the mist of terror in my eyes, thinking about Nick and his touch and his smile and his eyes and his smell until my anxiety ebbs. When I'm feeling stable enough I grit my teeth and put my eye to the glowing keyhole. 

On the other side of the door is a small candle-lit room with a tiled floor smeared with rusty red stains... and holy shit there's a dead body lying against the wall! My teeth bite hard into my tongue to stifle the scream in my throat and it takes several seconds of pain for me to realize that the dead man isn't anyone I know. The corpse's head is fixed at a strange angle like from a broken neck and his unseeing eyes stare at nothing as a pool of scarlet blood clots around his face. His skin looks swollen and purple with death and the blue tip of his tongue is jutting out from between his gray lips. Horror stabs my guts and I puke up a mouthful of cracker mush on the kitchen floor, shuddering as tears flood my eyes. Blinking them away, I concentrate on swallowing the bile in my throat with another sip of water as my racing heart pounds erratically and I realize that I’ve stopped breathing and have to force myself to start again. 

When I get my breath back, I look through the keyhole once more but keep my sight focused away from the dead man. Near the middle of the room to the right of my door is a carved wooden chair with a high back and James is strapped into it: his limbs tied tightly to the chair’s legs and armrests with black rope. He’s still breathing but his head is hanging forward and I can't tell if he's conscious or not because of a dirty cloth blindfold covering his eyes. His left arm is dripping blood from a series of long shallow cuts and his hand is covered in nasty burns. Holes ripped through the legs of his jeans reveal slashes of bloody, torn skin underneath and his cheeks look swollen and bruised in the flickering light of several dozen candles. Fuck.

Horrified, I move my hand to the bolt on the door ready to open it before I realize poor James is not alone in there. A tall blond man in a long black coat with a face like a tombstone is standing behind the chair next to a small steel table covered with what I assume are instruments of torture. I can see bloodstained blades and brass knuckles, a claw hammer and even one of James’s own medkits from the RV, spread open to display the equipment and drug vials inside. My lips tremble and I press them together, biting my tongue again. James is such a nice kind person, how could anyone do this to him? Staring out of my hiding place, I wipe my eyes and keep my mouth shut to stop from calling his name. James is my friend and basically the guy who takes care of the rest of us. He's literally saved all of our lives at least once and seeing him looking so damaged and defenceless like this chills me to the core. Where are Brendon, Gerard and the others? I can't see them in the room. What if it's already too late for them?

The tall blond man has a gaunt angry-looking face with a wide mouth and pale flinty eyes. His hands are dressed in blood-stained latex gloves and as I watch holding my breath he picks up and fills a large medical syringe with some kind of liquid from the medkit. James can’t see what his torturer is doing and I have no idea what that drug is. For all I know it's a lethal injection. “Still awake?” the blond man asks, his voice booming in the quiet and making me jump. James coughs a little and blindly spits blood at the air in front of him. “I'll take that as a Yes” the torturer grins, stepping calmly around the side of the chair, “I hope so because you’re not blacking out on my watch, not until you‘re dead.” Tapping air bubbles out of the syringe, he steps forwards and calmly stabs the needle into the side of James’s neck, draining the contents into his bloodstream. James gasps with shock and his head snaps up in alertness. “W-What was that?!” he pants in a frightened voice.  
“You’re the medical man, you tell me,” the blond man says smugly. “Actually I gave you a nice fat shot of adrenaline. I’m not sure how concentrated it was though so think of this as an experiment.”  
“You gave me adrenaline?” James chokes as his strapped down hands start to shake and his cheeks flush red, “H-How much? You’re gonna kill me!”

The blond psychopath smiles and hisses tauntingly: “It may surprise you to know, James, that I’m quite well versed in medical matters. There's a chance this will kill you but there's also a pretty good chance it won't. You're still fairly young and fit, a little underfed but strong enough and that makes you an excellent subject for drug abuse in my opinion. Tell me if I'm wrong but right now the shot I've given you should be causing your blood pressure to sky-rocket and your heart to beat faster and faster. Your skeletal muscles are being forced into a state of heightened readiness - the fight or flight response taken to the extreme - but you can’t fight or flee when you’re tied to a chair so, haha, sorry about that. It's going to hurt quite a lot. In a few moments your head will start to ache and then a rush of nausea will increase into dizziness and fever. If I’ve given you a high enough dose then a heart attack and death will soon follow of course, but you already know all of this don’t you, being a medic and all.”

James is hyperventilating now, breathing too fast for proper air to get to his lungs, and his battered body is trembling, “I'm gonna b-be sick,” he gasps, “Make it stop!”  
“Make what stop?” the blond monster asks in mock innocence.  
“You’re f-fucking mad!” James sobs breathlessly, “W-Why are you doing this?”  
The blond man sighs and raises his pale eyebrows. “Because the world is a very boring place, James, and human road-kill is my main source of entertainment these days. Torture is my cinema and blood is my art. Screams are my opera. In the old world a lot of people called me mad or insane but one man’s insanity is another man’s genius. You should remember that.”

James shakes his head and retches violently, spitting up frothy white fluid. His trembling hands are being chafed raw against the tight cords of rope and his breathing is all messed up. Crouched in my hiding place, I clench my fists as my stomach aches with stress and anguish and tears run from my eyes. Please don’t die, I beg silently over and over again, Please don’t die!

Grinning madly, the blond monster presses two of his long gloved fingers against James’s neck and checks his pulse. “Hmmm. I believe your heartbeat is currently what professionals call ‘sinus tachycardia‘,” he reports gleefully, “It’s beating far too fast and irregularly but it’s not fatal…yet. Can you feel your blood boiling? Or the chill of the grave?”

James doesn’t have enough breath left to even try to answer these disturbing questions and his lips are turning blue as he shivers and sobs with feverish tension. “Have you had enough yet?” the blond man cackles, “Answer me James or I‘ll have to burn you again.” Smiling broadly the torturer picks up a blow-torch from the table and fires it up. A fucking blowtorch! Then he finally notices James’s lack of breathing and puts it down again with a scowl. “Oh, but this won’t be much fun anymore if you can’t scream,” he sighs, rummaging around in the med-kit, “What do you need to counteract the adrenaline, hmm? Alpha blockers? Diuretics? Of course I have no way of knowing for sure unless you tell me and you can‘t tell me because you can‘t speak right now. Isn’t that hilarious?” 

Casually filling another syringe with a different drug, the psycho injects James with it and reluctantly holds an oxygen mask over his victim’s mouth and nose. It takes a few minutes for James’s breathing to return to anything like normal but thankfully it does, although he’s still pale and shaking when the demented creep throws the mask aside and says, “There, all better! If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to fetch more tools from my kitchen. Sit tight, James, I’ll be right back.”

His kitchen? Oh shit, I’m in his kitchen! Looking wildly around for something to defend myself with, I remember the crowbar and scoop it off the floor, gripping the strong metal tight. It feels comforting and for a moment I actually start to think I can do this. Do what? ‘Do whatever it takes’ my mind whispers.

The door in front of me is bolted on my side so I know the blond man must be coming through the other door. Dashing over to it, I hide behind the damp wooden frame and listen to the torturer’s footsteps coming closer and closer. With a loud creak the door swings open and the blond man steps through it. I am staring at his back in the half-light from the hallway and he hasn’t seen me yet. He doesn’t know I’m here. His head is built on a neck of lean muscle and the collar of his leather coat is worn and supple. He’s been wearing it for decades, or he stole it from someone who has. This bastard deserves whatever I do to him. He deserves to die!

Without another thought I swing the crowbar as hard as I can into the side of the evil man’s head. Metal hits bone, blood stains blond hair, and THUD, his body hits the floor and lies still. Then my legs are suddenly shaking and I feel hot and sick. My stomach cramps painfully and I rub it with both hands, dropping the crowbar faster than my victim fell. My victim? No, no I’m not a killer! Am I? My ears buzz with static and my brain fills with light as raw panic overwhelms me and I feel like I’m falling...

Then like a lightbulb switching on in a dark room, my mind goes completely blank as all my scrambled thoughts and raging fears vanish like smoke and my emotions mercifully shut down, smothered up in a welcoming cocoon of numbness. I can feel nothing at all. I’m still conscious but somehow separate from myself, like I’m floating outside my own body, and there is no anxiety or horror here. My brain has figured out the only way I’ll be calm enough to rescue James and the others is if it shuts down my terror like novocaine numbing a bad tooth, the side-effect being that I can‘t feel anything anymore, not hope or anxiety or sadness, but that doesn’t matter as long as I can save my friends. As long as I can save Brendon. I can do it, I’m doing it right now, and I can keep on doing it until someone else takes over. I don’t have the power to worry about what that might mean anymore. 

My body starts to move and I kneel down beside the blond man and roll him over to check his pulse. He’s knocked out but still breathing and I smack his head again with the crowbar to make sure he stays unconscious. Maybe he’ll die but my numbed heart sure isn't going to break over him. As if from a distance I watch myself strap his wrists and ankles together with the duct tape I took from the cellar and gag his evil mouth shut. Then I search his pockets and find a lighter, some cigars and a ring of house keys. Getting to my feet, I try each key one by one in the door the blond man used to enter the kitchen until I find the right one and lock it. Then I walk calmly across the room and unbolt the door I was using to spy through just a minute ago.

James flinches at the sound of me entering the room and my heart jumps. I try saying his name but my mouth is so dry that no sound comes out at first. Clearing my throat, I try again: “James?”  
He flinches again and turns his blindfolded face towards me in shock, “Ryan?”  
“Yeah, it's me, don't be scared.”  
“H-How...Are you okay?”  
“I should be asking you that,” my voice replies in a strange monotone, “You look terrible.”  
“Yeah. I feel worse...Where is he?”  
“That guy who hurt you? He won’t be coming back.”  
"He won‘t?" James repeats doubtfully, chewing his lip.  
“No. I've found a way out of here. Hang on...” 

My voice sounds artificial like an emotionless robot, and I figure I need to snap out of this weird dazed state somehow before I permanently zone out of reality but I'm not sure what will shake me loose. James is probably too traumatized to notice that I’m behaving like a zombie so it doesn’t matter. Stepping quickly over a row of dying candles on the floor, I pause for a moment and glance over at the battered corpse of the stranger by the wall. His eyes are dark and lifeless like a doll‘s eyes or a shark's. 

“Ryan w-what are you waiting for?” James asks tearfully, “Untie me!”  
“Right,” I mutter, my hollow voice echoing in my throat, “Let’s get out of here.” Under the blindfold James’s brown eyes are bloodshot and glazed with pain and drugs and he’s obviously been crying. He can’t stop shaking from the extra adrenaline in his body and while I untie him he bites down hard on his bottom lip and lowers his gaze, trying not to look at the bloodied corpse nearby. “Who is that?” I ask softly, easing his burnt hand out of a loop of rope.  
“I dunno,” James croaks in a broken whisper, “Poor bastard w-was in the chair before me.”

Can you walk?” I ask when I’ve removed all the ropes. “I dunno. Maybe.” Bracing himself, James gets slowly to his feet but his legs buckle before he can take two steps and he drops to his hands and knees, grunting with pain as the impact splits the blackened skin of his burned palm. Kneeling beside him I gingerly put my hand on his shoulder and his shakes are still so bad I can feel my own skin shiver. His shirt is damp with sweat and his chest is shuddering dangerously with shallow, hiccuping breaths. “James,” I whisper helplessly, and with that one frightened word all of my vulnerability and emotions come tumbling back and I almost burst into tears. I feel as dumb and useless as a child watching a parent suffer. I don’t know how to make things right. “James, tell me what’s hurting you? What can I do?"  
With a tired groan, James pushes himself backwards, leaning heavily against the big chair. “Get the med-kit,” he mumbles, cradling his blistered hand against his chest, “And water.”  
“Okay,” I say, jumping up and reaching for the spilled medical supplies on the table.  
“Ry?”  
“Yes?”  
“Get a blanket or something too. To cover that man.”

I dash back into the kitchen and find a tablecloth and some bottled water - the blond psycho is still out cold. When I return I lock both of the torture room doors from the inside with my stolen keys and put the med-kit and water on the floor in front of James. He's still avoiding looking at the dead man and is wheezing rather than breathing as sickly shivers run through his body. With his unburned hand he rummages clumsily through the med-kit and pops open a pill bottle, swallowing four tablets with water while I quickly drape the tablecloth over the corpse. “There's nothing you could have done,” I say hesitantly in the silence, “You couldn't have saved this guy.”  
“I know,” James sobs, a sudden rush of tears trickling down his bruised cheeks, “But fuck, I should have saved Patrick! If I'd done or, or s-said something different...”  
“Patrick's dead?!” I gasp.  
“They said s-so,” James groans, hugging one of his knees to his chest like a little kid, “I h-heard them beating him and then n-nothing. And he died for what? To h-help me? After everything we went through I couldn’t save him, Ry. My own family and I c-couldn’t save him!"

Shaking his head, he covers his eyes and sobs breathlessly, so upset and strung out I know I can‘t possibly move him while he's like this. I'll have to wait until the shock of the torture and losing his nephew wears off or the pills he’s taken kick in, but it’s not like we can stay here much longer without being discovered. 

“James, you’re not breathing right. Is there anything I can do to help you?”  
“N-No! God...Ryan, I c-can’t do this anymore. I can't...I swore I'd n-never lose him. Not Patrick!”  
“I know. I don't know what to say, I'm so sorry. But please take a deep breath, you've got to calm down or-”  
“I can't!”  
“Yes you can. We can’t stay here, you know that so please just let me help you. Tell me how you would treat a patient in your condition.”  
James shakes his head in despair and tears drip from his chin as he weakly fidgets his injured legs against the floor. He's really struggling to breathe now, crippled by what must be an overwhelming amount of emotional and physical pain, and his face is turning pale and slightly blue, “I don't know...” he pants faintly, “This...it’s m-more than injuries like... It's t-trauma. Shock. But I can't be s-sedated cos anymore drugs…w-would make it worse! I dunno…h-how... fuck, Ry...I can’t breathe!”  
“Okay, it's okay, don't worry,” I say desperately, “I'll fix it. I'll...” And then it hits me. I've seen this kind of scenario playing out before. Gerard and Frank.  
“If I hug you will that help? It always helps Frank when he's hurt or having a panic attack.”  
James looks at me like I'm crazy for a moment but with limited options seems to think it over, “M-Maybe," he stammers, still gasping for breath as his eyes lose focus, “Pressure like that... I guess... s-sedates the...I dunno... Fuck, this h-hurts!"

That's all I need to hear. Pushing the heavy chair away, I quickly sit down behind him and wrap my arms around his tense shivering body, careful not to put too much pressure on his wounds. He cringes away a little at first, whimpering in distress, but after a few minutes of me pressing my chest against his back and holding him still his breathing starts to slow down and even out and he's shaking less and less. I just hope it's enough.

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

I’m drifting off into exhausted sleep on the cell's musty floor when a woman’s high-pitched laughter echoes through the house and three sets of clumsy footsteps pound the ceiling above our heads, stumbling down what sounds like a flight of stairs before coming to an unsteady halt right outside our door. This can’t be good. 

Two leery male voices rumble along with the woman’s drunken treble and I can hear what they’re saying through the padded door: “Come on, my pets are in there and I want them now! Where’s your fucking keys?”  
“Shut up Giselle, I’m looking! And I got a promise of violence to keep to one of the kids in there - the little loud-mouthed one - so don’t neither of you touch him till I'm done."  
“Is he pretty? Cos if he is you can fuck off, he's gonna be mine."  
“Screw that!"  
“Will both of you please shut the fuck up! Matt gimme the keys, man, you’re drunk.”  
“So are you Brian, you dumb fuck.”  
“Yeah but unlike you I can actually hold my liquor.”  
“Fuck you, man!”

“Shit,” Mikey whimpers, staring wide-eyed at the door, “They’ve come to get us without the boss and they’re drunk!”  
“What are they gonna do to us?” I ask in a scared whisper as the sound of keys jangling echoes outside. Mikey shudders and gulps loudly, “If we’re lucky they’ll just beat us up a little and Giselle will fuck whoever she wants. If we’re unlucky they’ll do that and then shoot us or rape us to death!” 

“See, look I found the right key,” Brian’s voice exclaims triumphantly. Ray edges protectively closer to Brendon and Patrick, and I grab Frank's hand and squeeze it tight with Mikey crouched at my side. Meeting Ray’s eyes, I can see the faint ghosts of courage and loyalty replacing the empty despair that killed his spirit in the forest and I think now that we’re actually about to die he's realized that he doesn’t want to. What perfect timing.

A key moves loudly in the lock and the cell door swings open revealing our fate. A tall, tattooed man in a soiled vest and ripped jeans is standing in the doorway with a ring of keys in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. He has a scruffy mane of long dark hair and soulless eyes and I'm pretty certain he's not one of the masked monsters who kidnapped us. Behind him is Sledgehammer (aka “Matt” I suppose), lurking drunk and shirtless in the hallway with a gun in one hand and an open whiskey bottle in the other. Giselle - a slutty brunette wearing red lingerie and hooker boots - is hanging off Brian’s beefy arm and leering madly into the cell at us, stroking a large silver dagger against her cleavage. For a few horrible moments no one moves or speaks. We just stare at each other. I’m holding my breath. 

Then everybody moves at once and the room dissolves into snapshots of terror and pain. Brian strides in and immediately grabs Brendon and Mikey by their hair, dragging them over to Giselle and dumping them at her feet. “Here’s your pets, baby. Have fun!” Giselle squeals and jabs her dagger playfully at Mikey's face before shoving Brendon onto his back and straddling his hips, unzipping his overalls down to the crotch. “Hey!” Ray roars, shoving her off Brendon onto the floor, “Don’t you touch him!”  
“Hey yourself!” Giselle snaps angrily, “I can do whatever I want, dumbass, he’s my fucking property!” Slashing at Ray‘s face with her dagger, she forces him backwards and shrieks, “Matt, kill this one!” and Matt fires two shots. BANG! BANG! Blood stains the wall, my ears ring, and Ray has two bullets in his skull.

Frank screams in horror as the rest of us gape in shock and silence reigns for a few agonizing moments. Then Patrick hesitantly makes a move to check Ray's limp body for signs of life and Brian pounces, grabbing James’s nephew by the arm and casually breaking his wrist with an audible CRACK before dropping him howling on the dirty floor. Giselle cackles with glee and climbs back onto a squirming Brendon, stabbing her blade deep into his shoulder and making him scream while Brian pushes Mikey to the floor and rips his shirt off and Ray is DEAD! Matt fucking shot him in the face! Blood and brains trickle down the padded wall and my insides spasm and lurch until stomach acid and soda sprays my chest. Then Matt hits me so hard everything goes black and I want to sleep forever.

When I regain consciousness a few seconds later I'm horrified to see the man I knew as Sledgehammer standing with his meaty hands wrapped around Frank's throat, lifting him two feet off the floor while poor Frank chokes and kicks at the empty air. “I’ll teach you to shout at me, you little cunt!” he roars into Frankie’s frightened face as he chokes him, strangles him, kills him! My mouth opens but no sound comes out and I need to get up but my dizzy head still wants to sleep and I can’t move!

Everything around me: all the blood and violence and hurt, melts into one huge poisonous murder scene and in the middle of all the darkness and hate I finally understand. The city we escaped from wasn’t hell. This whole world is hell now and there is no way to escape, not ever. Ray is dead. Patrick is crying with pain. Mikey is pinned down under Brian's drunken bulk while Brendon is brutallized by a psychotic bitch and Frank is suffocating! The fatal commotion whirls violently around my dazed aching head and I can only claw myself halfway off the floor before collapsing again. Hold on Frankie! I'm coming, just hold on! But Matt is intent on murder and Frank is barely struggling anymore as his face turns blue and I watch, horrified, as his eyes suddenly roll back in his head and his hands drop limply to his sides. NO!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----------------------------------------------------------------  
> ((Is anyone besides the lovely PunkPocahontas still reading this? Will anyone actually survive this story? I guess we'll find out when I update again! ;) xox))


	21. Remains

**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

“Ryan? You can let go of me now.”  
“Huh? Oh.” I’m so tired I’ve nearly fallen asleep with my head on James’s shoulder and it sounds stupid but even though we’re in mortal danger, I don’t want to get up. What if this is the last chance I ever get to hug someone? I don’t want to be alone when I die. “Thanks,” James mumbles tiredly as I reluctantly uncurl my arms from around his chest, “I think I’m alright.” His breathing does sound better and the tremors that were making him sick before are gone but he's covered in cuts and burns and his voice is rough with pain. I scoot away and stand up on tingling, blood-starved legs then give him my hand to help him up. He’s unsteady and limping but stays on his feet this time.

“You're the first familiar face I've found,” I remind him, “Do you know where Brendon and the others are?”  
“No.” Looking gloomily around the torture chamber with reddened eyes, he coughs quietly and drops his gaze onto the cloth-covered corpse, probably thinking about Patrick.

Drunken footsteps and laughter rattle the ceiling above our heads and I can hear music playing somewhere. There could be a dozen strangers living in this hellhole and most of them are probably batshit insane. James takes a few deep breaths and checks his own pulse, sighing at the result. The burnt skin on his hand looks like raw meat, lumpy and red and yellowish-white.

Sifting through the spilled medical supplies on the table I find some gauze and antiseptic and quickly clean and cover his wounds as best I can. The sting of the antiseptic makes his eyes water and when I’m finished he looks over at the dead man again and I glimpse a storm of toxic grief behind his eyes. “Ryan,” he whispers shakily, staring at the cooling blood oozing through the thin cloth, “Find me some morphine too.”  
Giving him a shot of morphine when he already has at least three other drugs in his system seems like a bad idea. “Um, are you sure?”  
“I'll be no use to you if I can't move for pain. Just gimme the damn drug.” 

Reluctantly I stab a morphine syrette into his left shoulder and as the chemical enters his bloodstream he visibly relaxes and half-falls, half-sits down on the floor again looking sleepy and spaced out. “No no, don’t sit down James, we have to get out of here now.” He blinks up at me and wipes a bandaged hand over his face, nodding like he's in a trance. “Yeah, I know, I’m up.”  
“No, you’re not!” I hiss in exasperation, grabbing him under the arms and hauling him to his feet again. “Come on James, I didn’t walk all this way to find you just to leave you behind. Stand up! Now tell me if there‘s anything in the med-kit we can use as a weapon.”  
“A weapon?” he echoes doubtfully, brushing my hands off but thankfully staying upright, “Well, I s’pose…” Searching through the junk on the table, he picks up two dart-shaped syringes full of pale yellow liquid and hands one to me. “These are very strong sedatives, kinda like animal tranquilizers. Stick one of these in a bloke and he’ll sleep for six hours.”  
“Okay, great. That's something at least. How are you feeling? Are you up for this?”  
“Yeah, I'll survive. Sorry if I’m scaring you, I'm just... a fucking mess."  
“It's alright. Stay close to me and don’t do anything stupid, okay? I need you, James. We all do.” 

***  
It doesn’t take long to find our friends - we just follow the shouting. Outside the torture room and down a short corridor near some stairs is an open door. It leads into a dingy gray room and when I enter the first thing I see is a big tattooed guy kneeling on the arms of a young stranger I’ve never seen before who is struggling beneath him screaming obscenities. The next thing I see is Brendon lying on the blood-stained floor whimpering miserably while a half-naked woman pumps her hand up and down inside his pants. What the fuck?

Without hesitation I stab my dart of sedative into the big guy's neck and he drops sideways to the floor, twitching and unconscious, freeing the skinny stranger from underneath him and clearing my path to Brendon. Stop that bitch! my mind screams, Stop her now! Forgetting my crowbar, I just hurl myself at the woman molesting my best friend and knock her off him to the floor, punching her unconscious before I even know what I’m doing. I just hit a woman for the first time in my life and I don't give a shit because she fucking deserved it!

James was right behind me and I hear the sound of more bodies hitting the floor – one heavy and one light – about a second before he gasps “Patrick!” and Gerard's voice sobs, “Oh god, Frankie!” 

Turning away from the KO'd woman in disgust, I see...Ray? What the... ? There's a fractured mess of crimson under tangled curly hair and it takes my racing thoughts a few seconds to realize that Ray is dead. He's fucking dead! My stomach drops through the floor and my mind fills with a giddy haze of blood. Oh no, no, no! God, no!

Shaking, I crawl over to my old friend’s body and my eyes sting with tears as the ground spins away from me and I struggle to take a breath. I never forgave Ray after Nicholas died. I never let him hug me again or talk to me or even sit next to me after we left the city and I regret it now. He just wanted to make things right between us but I wouldn’t let him. I wouldn't let him and now it’s too late! He’s gone forever just like Nick and I’ll never be able to let him back into my life. I hated him for so long but I never wanted things to end up like this! FUCK!  
Dizziness swamps my head and turns my muscles to water as cold sweat prickles my skin and I dry-heave into Ray’s bloody lap. Darkness swallows the edges of my vision and I can’t speak or fill my lungs. I can’t do anything but whisper broken apologies as my guts churn with sadness and guilt. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry...

I think I'm drowning as I let my head drop onto Ray’s leg and cling desperately to his clothes and his cold fingers, so wrecked I don’t really know what I’m doing. This is Ray's body but it’s also Nicholas lying dead beside me as crimson drips into my hair and splatters my cheeks, mixing with tears. I can’t move away because I don’t want to let him go. Why does everyone in my life have to die? I still need you! You can’t go yet! You can't be dead! Fucking stay with me!

Voices babble round and round the small room and buzz in my ears, overlapping and rippling with emotion.  
“Ry!”  
“No, no, SHIT! I can't do this!”  
“He's still not breathing...”  
“Frankie! Please, come on, wake up!”  
“Push harder on his chest...”  
“It's not working!”  
“Fucking hell...”  
“Ryan!”  
Someone somewhere is crying their heart out. The red in my eyes turns black. “Ryan, snap out of it!” 

Movement scrapes my body and someone drags me out of Ray’s lap and back into the world, lifting my head and holding me against their warm, living chest. I can feel their breath on my neck but my own lungs won't co-operate. I’m still drowning. Just let me go...  
“Ryan, come on! Breathe!”  
It‘s Brendon.  
Brendon is holding me and there’s pain in his voice but he’s alive and he's here and I finally give myself a mental kick up the ass and start sucking down painful breaths of warm moist air to save myself from me. 

Across the room someone else starts coughing and gulping down air like a newborn baby and as my normal vision returns I look up over Brendon’s shoulder and see Frank gasping on the floor while a crying Gerard gently strokes his head. The young stranger is kneeling beside them and James is standing nearby with Patrick – who looks like shit but is definitely not dead – and another thug's tranquillized body lying sprawled at their feet. Frank slowly sits up, his breathing hoarse and quick and his eyes wide, and gingerly touches a ring of red marks around his neck with a trembling hand. “It's okay sweetheart,” Gerard tells him softly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and kissing Frank's cheek, “You're alright now, you're gonna be just fine...”  
Frank shakes his head slightly, and looks past Gerard towards an empty corner of the room, his cracked lips mouthing something indistinct. The skinny stranger gets to his feet, his dark eyes fixed angrily on the woman I knocked out a minute ago and Gerard looks up sharply. “Mikey, don't. I know she hurt you but if you hurt her back you’ll be just like her and you’ll regret it. I know you will.” The guy - Mikey - nods tensely and his eyelids flicker as he swallows hard, looking like he would love to scratch the unconscious woman‘s eyes out, but he obeys Gerard and doesn’t approach her. 

James comes over to examine Ray's body but it's painfully obvious that there is nothing he can do. “I'm sorry Ryan,” he says sadly, crouching down beside me and Brendon. “Let him go for a minute, Bren, I need to take a look at that shoulder wound.”  
Brendon is still hugging me with my ear against his cheek, and it’s only now that James mentions it that I notice the blood trickling in a warm steady stream from his left shoulder and soaking through our clothes. He’s been stabbed? Jerking away apologetically, I look into his half-bandaged eyes and realize he’s been crying. I can feel his tears running through my matted hair like mine once did through his in that old truck-stop café. I'm so sick of crying. I'm so fucking tired of tears.

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

My head is pounding like a drum and I can barely see straight enough to look at Frank while he recovers his breath from being brought back to life. I ask him about fifty times if he’s okay but he either can’t talk or won’t and only nods slightly in response, his eyes wet and far away. If Mikey hadn’t been here to perform CPR on him just now I don’t know what might have happened! Squeezing his bony shoulder in a lame attempt to make him feel better, I look around at our surviving friends and it's not exactly an encouraging sight. Ryan is kneeling in a fragile state near the door, chewing his bottom lip to shreds and trying very hard not to look at Ray’s body while he cleans up the knife-wound in Brendon’s shoulder. Next to them, James is sitting back wearily against the wall covered in bruises and dried blood, telling Ryan what to do instead of administering the first-aid himself because he can't move his burnt fingers. Patrick is cradling his broken arm against his chest looking pale and nauseous and clearly fighting back tears. It's a blessing for everyone when Ryan fetches what's left of James's medicine bag and dishes out heavy doses of painkillers. It's time to run again.

We can't carry Ray with us so we all say our goodbyes and then I grab Sledgehammer’s gun while he’s still unconscious and steal Brian's boots to wear since I was just wearing socks when we were taken from the RV. We creep into the hallway, locking the padded room behind us with Brian’s keys and I breathe a heavy sigh of relief to see those lunatics shut away behind a secured door where they belong. 

Thankfully no one living on the upper floor comes downstairs to catch us escaping and the man in charge is unconscious and tied up on the kitchen floor courtesy of Ryan so it’s pretty simple for us to get to the cellar, steal some winter coats and pack their deep pockets with as much food and water as we can carry and get ready to leave. Patrick's broken wrist needs to be reset before we go so Mikey covers the poor guy's mouth to stop him screaming while Ryan realigns the fractured bones under James's guidance and binds Patrick's wrist and hand to a makeshift splint with layers of gauze and tape. Morphine helps a little but when the task is done Patrick pukes on the cellar steps and still looks faint and sick when we creep quietly outside into the cold dark night. 

We get away without anyone following us but that is the only positive aspect of our escape. Frank still won't say a word and he won’t even walk unless I hold his hand so I drag him along through the muddy grass and dead trees while Mikey and Ryan look after the others. We know our RV lost its tires in the crash and is now in the care of a gun-toting criminal so we can’t risk going back to it and the bad guys’ pick-up truck is locked up tight and alarmed. Nobody wants to walk back through the forest of dead people to the psycho-guarded highway so with no other options we head out in the opposite direction along a trail that leads from the back of the house into the dark hills beyond. 

It's pitch dark and freezing cold under the icy yellow moon and we’ve only got the clothes on our backs and the food in our pockets to help us survive. My head aches and throbs with every step I take and the boots I stole are too big for me and give me blisters. Brendon and James are so wrecked from drugs and injuries that they have to keep stopping to catch their breath or puke up the water we keep making them drink but if we don't find shelter somewhere we’ll freeze so we keep walking... and walking… and walking. It’s endless and exhausting and it hurts and all of us are wounded, traumatized or grieving but we keep moving because we have no other choice. 

We walk for what feels like forever, until long after dawn, stumbling over empty rabbit holes and dead tree roots, until my feet are bleeding and my face and hands are numb with cold. We walk until we’re surrounded by nothing but crumbling hillsides and barren country lanes leading to nowhere and we have to force James and Brendon to keep moving by physically pushing them forwards. I’m starting to think we’ll never find a safe place to rest when finally, at long last, we stumble across a cabin. 

***  
The small wooden building is half-hidden by a copse of trees several miles from the torturers’ lair and since no one answers the door when we knock, Mikey busts the lock and we enter uninvited, half of us collapsing to our knees in exhaustion the second we realise it's unoccupied. By the glow of flashlights we discover a spacious well-furnished room lined with thick tarred walls and a carpet of furs and bearskin rugs dusty with cobwebs... and one solitary dead man dried up and cadaverous in one of the cabin’s three single beds. The shrivelled body is surrounded by old photographs of smiling rosy-cheeked people and I could swear the joyful sunshiney world in those pictures never really existed, it’s been so long since I’ve seen it. 

Patrick uses the med-kit's Virus scanner to check the corpse and the result is negative so I guess the poor guy took his own life with an overdose or something and faded away out here alone with only a few pictures of his loved ones to comfort him. 

Mikey and Ryan drag the dead man outside, bed and all, and hide him behind the cabin’s woodpile, returning with enough dry wood to build a large roaring fire in the clean stone hearth. There's an old outhouse a few meters from the main building stocked with cartons of soap and crates of toilet paper which we all take advantage of. Then everyone settles in the cabin's warm belly and we bolt the door and shut the thick drapes, hiding from the fear and violence of the outside world in the cosy wooden den, glad to be alive. There’s no edible food in the cupboards but there is a wooden chest filled with pillows and blankets, baggy cotton men's shirts and jeans which we help ourselves to, balling up our own bloodstained rags and tossing them in garbage bags. We let Brendon and James have the two remaining beds and the rest of us camp out on the floor near the crackling orange fire. I'm so tired my eyes are swimming and my hands and legs keep trembling with exertion long after I've sat down exhausted on the cushioned floor. Mikey heats up enough water for everyone to have a hot drink and then rations out some food, painkillers and Frank and Ryan's usual pills. People quickly start falling asleep and I curl up with Frank close to the fire while Ryan and Mikey make sure James and Brendon are comfortable. Despite swallowing my share of the medicine I still ache all over and several times I wake up from nightmares in the cabin's soft semi-darkness with my eyes hot and gritty and my stomach groaning. I finally doze off again sometime mid-afternoon with my face buried in Frankie’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------(As always thanks for reading! All comments are welcome and I will update again soon. xox)-----------


	22. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((sorry if this is full of typos, it's late and im tired but i wanted to update. Thanks for reading, lovelies. xxx))

**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

My guts are still acidic with grief over Ray and I'm miles beyond tired - physically, mentally and emotionally drained – but I still can't go to sleep. Leftover guilt and sadness is driving me mad with a nervous exhaustion that won’t let me stay still. When Frank and I take our daily sedatives I hide mine under my tongue and spit it into the fire when no one is looking. We all need rest to recover from the horrors of last night and my muscles and eyes ache but if there’s still a chance James or Brendon could die or get sicker from their injuries and the cocktails of chemicals in their blood I can't let myself be unconscious.

Both James and Bren are in really bad shape and the long cold march to the cabin almost finished them off. They could hardly walk and kept collapsing in the dead grass, vomiting up every trace of food and fluid we forced into their empty stomachs until they were chronically dehydrated and almost crying with exhaustion. When the drugs began to wear off the pain of their injuries made it even harder for them to carry on and we had to force them to keep moving. Dragging Brendon along a country road to nowhere while he was sobbing and shaking and in pain and begging me to stop was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. It was several degrees below freezing out there in the hills though - cold enough to take your life if you were outside for too long – so we had to keep walking. And our meagre supplies kept diminishing. Every time someone threw up we made them eat something and drink more water from the stolen bottles in our coats to help them detox, hoping that the chemicals in their bodies would be flushed out when they took a piss. Only it didn't seem to make much difference in the end.

By the time we found the cabin Gerard, Patrick and Frank were also ready to drop and Mikey and I weren’t much better but somehow we found the energy to remove the remains of the cabin’s former occupant and collect enough wood to heat the place with a warm blissful fire. James and Brendon passed out in the spare beds after Mikey made them drink some warm water mixed with hydrating powders from the rapidly emptying med-kit. Thankfully they didn't puke it back up again right away and we cut off their blood-stained clothes with scissors and cleaned them up a bit before leaving them to sleep it off. Brendon's vision was shot and he couldn't stop crying until he fell asleep and James was running a fever. I still can't stop worrying about them dying here. Fuck it, ALL of us could die here. This cabin is just one small shelter in a whole world of shit.

We all changed into some clean clothes and ate a small meal by the light of the crackling fire. Frank swallowed his pills like an obedient little dog and I spat mine out in secret and then we sat around in gloomy silence for a while feeding the fire until Patrick and Frank fell asleep and Gerard lay down next to his boyfriend on the bedding we'd spread out on the floor to try and do the same. 

Mikey offered to stay up with me for a while to take care of Brendon and James and while he redressed the stab-wound in Brendon‘s shoulder, I quietly ransacked all of the cabin’s cupboards for anything of use. I found an old CD walkman with working batteries and some Country Western and Motown CDs, a box of carpentry tools, some more bottled water and a handful of useless Anti-Virus pamphlets from about a year ago that never did anyone any good. I also found a zip-lock bag stuffed with various pills and powders that I recognized from my days spent running drugs for William in the city. I put that back where I found it and tried to forget it was there.

I don't know what time of day it is now. The whole concept of time sort of goes out the window when there's an apocalypse. What the fuck would we need to know the exact time for? All I know is that the fire is starting to die again and beyond the heavy drapes and thick cabin walls it's broad daylight outside and raining softly. I'm sitting curled up in an overstuffed armchair placed between the two cabin beds clutching the silent walkman like a comforter to my chest and listening to my friends breathe. James is sleeping on his back to keep the weight off the wounds on his arms and I keep imagining he's going to vomit in his sleep and choke to death. I can't stop worrying about him and Brendon and my stomach is riddled with sharp stabbing pains of guilt over not arriving at the killer's house in time to save Ray's life. I can still see his dead ruined face whenever I close my eyes and between him and Nick dying I'm starting to feel cursed! 

All I want and all I would wish for today is for Nick to have made it this far with me and be here right now holding me and telling me it's alright. I miss him so much it's like a piece of my soul is gone, and having Brendon here doesn’t make me feel any less lonely or sad. I want to cry my heart out but I guess I have no tears left because my eyes are as dry as a desert and they have been all day. 

I look up and see Mikey wandering wearily over to me. My pale dirty face is reflected in his gaze. “You should get some sleep,” he says softly, “You look like hell.”  
“I don‘t want to sleep,” I insist stubbornly, hugging the walkman and scrunching up in my chair. Brendon’s breath feels warm on the bare skin of my hands. Pale yellow liquid from his damaged eye is seeping through the bandages on his face and he‘ll need fresh ones soon. “I’m staying here.”  
“Whatever” Mikey yawns, scratching his head and stumbling towards the nest of blankets and sleeping people by the hearth, “Wake me up if you need help with anything.” 

He falls asleep pretty much instantly and after a few minutes on my own I can barely keep my eyes open. For a while I bite my tongue and fingers so the pain will keep me conscious but a wash of dreams and nightmares is gathering behind my sandy eyes and I know it won't be long before I drift away. Leaning over Brendon’s bed, I gently stroke his soft black hair and carefully peel the sodden bandages off his damaged eye, revealing the swollen eyelid and cloudy red eyeball scarred with a long deep cut right through the pupil. He'll never see through this eye again but he doesn't know that yet. I give him new bandages and he stirs while I'm working so I take the opportunity to give him another hydrating drink. He doesn’t open his good eye while I hold the bottle to his mouth, just swallows and makes a feeble half-conscious grab at my wrist. When he's lost in dreaming again I tuck the warm blankets tighter around his thin body and think about climbing in there with him and falling asleep in his arms. I need to be close to another human being, it doesn't matter who. The hurt and loneliness of missing Nicholas and now Ray is growing inside me into a gaping black-hole that swallows up every thought in my head except the desperate desire to cling to someone else. Anyone else. I feel so pathetic.

After another hour of neurotically checking James’s pulse and breathing every ten minutes, I'm so exhausted I'm finally letting myself relax enough for sleep to take me if it wants. Shutting my eyes on the shadowy safe quiet of our hideaway, the last thing I can hear is the wind moaning sadly outside over the desolate hills.

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

When I wake up I'm so dizzy it's like I'm on a merry-go-round. What the...? My neck and legs ache almost as much as my pounding head and my eyelids are glued shut with a salty crust that I have to scrub away with the back of my hand. There’s a misty haze blurring my vision that I can't quite blink away and I can only just make out the wooden cabin walls around me and a fireplace filled with glowing ashes and dead spiders. A mound of warm soft blankets covers my body and a there's a damp pillow under my cheek but I'm shivering and my skin feels loose and quivery. Under my matted hair my scalp is burning with a prickly painful sensation that’s making me see sparks and I feel so nauseous. It's like the worst hangover in history. Groaning softly, I roll over and see Frank lying beside me under the covers with cobwebs in his hair. He's asleep and I don't want to wake him but I badly need a drink of water and can‘t see any bottles within reach so it looks like I'm going to have to get up. It’s dim and shadowed inside the cabin but daylight is glowing through a crack in the heavy brown curtains and I get the feeling it’s quite warm in here but I’m trembling with chills. I must be ill, maybe feverish. Fuck. 

Ignoring the dizziness in my eyes, I sit up quickly and immediately regret it when a wave of painful aches attack my body. Mikey is sleeping a little way away with his arms wrapped around a comfy chair cushion and he looks so snug and peaceful that if it wasn’t for the faded bruises on his skin it would be like no time at all had passed since we were separated a year ago.

Rubbing my hot itchy head, I shove the blankets off my body and off Frank as well so I have room to get up. He keeps dozing but I don’t bother putting the sheets back over him because I want him - or someone else - to wake up and tell me why I‘m sick and how I can feel better.

Cautiously standing up on trembling legs, I hear myself moan miserably as my head starts to spin and my scalp burns hot under my tangled hair but the rest of me is still so cold. Stumbling over to Brendon’s bed, I grab a large water bottle lying on the covers and take a few big gulps that don’t make me feel any better. My legs are like jello and it’s hard to stay upright. Blinking past the clouds in my eyes, I vaguely notice that Ryan is squeezed into bed beside Brendon’s sleeping body with his hood pulled down over his eyes and his left arm flung across Brendon’s chest. I wonder how badly he misses our lost friends right now and if he‘s dreaming about Nicholas. 

'Medicine,' my weary brain orders, 'I need medicine.' Looking automatically for James, I stand there like an idiot for a few seconds because his bed is empty and I can't see him anywhere in the cabin. “James?” I mumble and my voice is a hoarse croak, “Where...?”  
“Gee? Hey are you okay?” Mikey yawns, getting up from under the blankets just as Frank rolls over and opens his eyes too. “James is gone,” I whisper faintly and then the room dips like a ship at sea and a another flush of heat boils my head as my eyes flood with mist. "And I feel dizzy…"

The water bottle falls from my hands and hits the floor only a moment before I do. Wow, it feels so good to lie down. Mikey cries my name and rushes over and I want to tell him that I didn’t mean to fall and I’m not passed out or anything but my lips won’t work and I can't speak. He sounds really far away like he’s yelling from across a big parking lot and I can barely hear him anymore. I can’t see much either because everything’s going black. My skin is sticking to the grit and dust under my cheek and, oh gross, I think I‘m drooling.  
“Gerard, wake up!”  
I am awake, Mikey, I just can’t see anything...  
“Wake up!”

“What’s goin on?” Frank’s voice asks anxiously, “What’s wrong with Gee?”  
“I‘m fine,” my voice mumbles as chills and heat waves fight for control over my body, "S'ok Frank..."  
Someone touches my forehead. I think it‘s Mikey and his hand feels like ice. “Shit, he‘s burning up! Frank, get over here and help me. Patrick! Ryan! Wake up!"  
“…Whuh?”  
“Mikey?”  
“I need your help guys, Gerard's sick or something."  
“Sick how?”  
“I don’t know, just help me move him to the other bed.”  
“Isn't James in the other bed?”  
“Not anymore.”  
“Where is he?”  
“How should I know? I just woke up. Probably just in the can. Help me with Gerard...”

Everyone sounds frightened and I would care if I wasn’t so busy blacking out. My stomach cramps and I think I'm crying because a faint sob escapes my lips. Mikey yells something at Frank but Frank doesn’t answer and I’m shivering again as blood freezes under my skin. Am I hot or cold? I don’t know. And everything aches so much. Warm hands grab my arms and legs and make my skin hurt as I’m lifted up and put back down on something soft and scratchy. My stomach does a somersault and a mouthful of vomit dribbles down my chin. I wonder if I'm dying for real this time and maybe I should be cos, y’know, it must be my turn by now...

“What’s he saying?” someone asks.  
“I don’t know, I think he’s delirious,” another person replies. Their voices echo and warp painfully in my ears and my head still feels like it’s on fire! I try to sit up, scratching at my burning hair, but firm hands press me back down against the mattress. “Lie down, Gee, it‘s okay.”  
“Hey, his fingers are bleeding.”  
“What? No…wait…the blood's coming from under his hair. Hold him still! Keep his hands down so I can look.”  
“Somebody find James!”  
My head is bleeding now? What’s happening to me?

***  
**FRANK'S P.O.V.**

Let me tell you a story. When I was a little kid, about five years old, my mom worked the night-shifts in a shitty diner downtown and since I had no dad around to look after me she would let my Uncle Denver stay over in our tiny apartment to baby-sit.

Before dark, Mom would put me to bed in my little box-room and I'd grab her waist with my tiny arms and beg her not to leave. “Don’t go away Mommy!” I’d cry desperately, clutching her blouse with my small hands, “Don’t leave!”  
“It’s alright sweetie,” she’d whisper, and she smelled like make-up, cigarettes and bottled flowers, “Uncle Denver's here to watch you and I’ll be back in the morning, you’ll see. I’ll come and wake you up for breakfast, ok? I’m only going to the diner.”  
“But...no! That’s too far away!” I’d wail, clinging tighter to her as my eyes filled with tears and my little legs bunched up with fear under my blankie, “Please stay tonight, Mommy! Don‘t go!”  
But she always had to go. She had bills to pay and me to feed and she didn’t know why I was so scared to go to sleep. She probably thought it was because she was gone and I missed her. I never told her the real reason. I never told anyone. 

Even at the tender age of five I knew my mommy had a lot to deal with: she was working graveyard shifts to buy me food and clothes and she was raising me alone without a partner or parents to help her. I was a brave boy most of the time - I wasn't afraid of dogs or bugs or thunderstorms - and she probably assumed I'd get over my fear of the night-time too. Only it wasn’t the night-time I was scared of: it was what happened in the night-time when my Uncle was there. 

Everyone in the neighborhood thought Denver was a stand-up guy, a man you could depend on who always did favors for his friends and spoiled me with candy and presents. They had no idea what he was really like, when it was just us alone in the dark. Nobody knew. He swore he’d kill me if I ever told anyone about our “secret” and I was only five years old at the time and so afraid. I was scared of upsetting my wonderful mommy, since she worked so hard for me, and no one ever found out the truth. When I was seven Uncle Denver moved to Australia. He’s probably dead now. Not even Gerard knows what that man did to me.

***  
“Frank, get up and do something useful! Go outside and find James, okay?” Gerard’s brother is shouting at me. People are always shouting at me, inside my head and out and it makes me feel so bad, like I’m this evil thing who deserves to be in trouble. I’m broken and lame and I'm so afraid of everything. The loudest voices are with me all the time, always whispering, and if they want to they can dig up all of Uncle Denver‘s “little secrets”. Sometimes when I'm not doing what She wants She shows me Him – Denver – hurting me and all I can do is hide or scream or hit myself and the walls until She makes Him go away. I fucking hate it! I hate Her and I hate myself because I let that shit happen to me. I wish Gerard had let me die last night when that guy strangled me. When he killed me and all the air was gone the voices finally stopped. They went away, all of them, and I was free. Everything was quiet. So quiet and dark and peaceful. Then I was dragged back into the world and everything went back to shit!

“Frank, are you listening? What's wrong with you anyway, why won't you talk?”  
I think Gerard’s brother hates me. He looks at me like I’m some kind of parasite feeding off his brother‘s kindness and love but he’s wrong. He’s fucking stupid and he doesn’t know a thing about me!  
“Frank!” he shouts again, “Can you hear me? Hello?”  
Shut up, shut up!  
“Don’t shout at him,” Brendon interrupts quietly, sitting up in bed and scratching at the bandages on his face, “He probably can’t hear you anyway.” They always seem to think that. They assume that if I don’t answer them it means I can’t hear them, but I can. I just can’t do anything about it because the other voices are so much louder and they have to take priority. I’m ignoring Mikey and Brendon because She's talking to me too and She says I’m only allowed to answer Her today. If I answer anyone else then She’ll make me hurt and I don’t want to hurt anymore. I can't handle any more pain today. Mom never knew the truth about me and she's dead now so she never will, but the mean woman knows everything and She'll bring back all of five-year-old Frankie’s worst memories if I don’t do what She says. If I disobey Her then demons will be all I ever see.


	23. Black Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( A lot of different POV's in this chapter. Sorry, it just sort of happened that way. Thanks for reading! Another update will come soon. xx))

**FRANK'S P.O.V.**

Something'a wrong with Gerard and I need to see his face so I beg Her to leave me alone for a second and run over to the beds while She stands by the hearth scowling. Ryan and Mikey are holding Gerard down against the mattress as he whimpers and fidgets with pain, doing things to his hair and face that are making him cry and my heart hurts at the sight. I try to push my way closer to see why Gee is upset but Mikey shoves me away and then sighs and points to a wide cut he's found under Gerard's hair and exposed to the light. The wound looks swollen and angry and is crusty with dried blood and pus. With a sinking sick feeling in my belly I remember Gerard getting hit on the head during the RV hijacking yesterday and then again later on before I was strangled by that douchebag Matt. He could have got that gash on his head either time and then got dragged over dirty floors and walked for miles across filthy hillsides and slept all night on a cabin floor with an immune system totally fucked up from under-eating. The cut must have got infected and now it’s poisoning his blood and making him sick. He could die from this, people die from this right? They burn up inside and they die! 

My fists clench and cram against my mouth to block the cry of panic in my throat and my eyes get hot and wet. I feel gut-punched and terrified and I want to shout and yell and smash every piece of furniture in this whole stupid cabin to get this feeling out of me, but because of Her I can’t even speak. Gerard can’t die here! He can't die! I can’t live without him here!

“Hey Frank, it's alright, come here a sec,” Patrick says softly, appearing beside me with a gentle hand on my shoulder, “Let's go find James so he can help Gerard, okay?” I nod slowly, not moving my curled fingers away from my mouth in case I make a noise and She gets mad. Patrick leads me to the cabin door by my sleeve and I let him because he's always been nice to me, much nicer than Gerard's mean brother. I trust him and his uncle to help Gerard no matter what happens because that's what they do: they help people. They're probably as close to angels as any of us are likely to get: the complete opposite of my demons. 

“If you don’t want to talk today that’s fine,” Patrick adds quietly, “But stay out of that Mikey guy's way because he doesn't know you and he won't understand why you can't answer him.” I nod again, tears dripping from my eyes even though I don't want to cry and Patrick smiles tiredly through the bruises on his face and puts an arm around my shoulders. The cabin door creaks open and together we walk out into the burning light of day. 

***  
**PATRICK'S POV**

The world looks worse in the smokey daylight than it does in the dark. At least when it's night-time the shadows can hide the awful truth. Once upon a time, before the Virus and the bombs, the view from this cabin must have been really pretty: endless fields and leafy green trees full of sunshine and birds. Now this whole State is barren and devoid of life. The silent hills and brown dead land stretch on endlessly towards a dusty horizon. The sky looks so cold and ash clouds and chemicals in the rain have destroyed the soil so that nothing can grow. The grass is brittle and dead and the bare trees are hollow and decayed. All the birds are rotting bones and feathers left behind in empty mud. It's so depressing I can feel the misery and hopelessness of the earth weighing on me like an anvil and it goes on and on and on... Alongside the cabin is a long dirt track leading out of the woods back the way we came. After a while it becomes a small lane and eventually leads to one of the thin black highways snaking between one destroyed city and another, covered in wrecked cars and corpses. I don't want to look at this stuff anymore. Damn, I miss Angel.

It only takes us a minute to find uncle James and my growing anxiety turns to sharp relief to see him still breathing. He's sitting on a blackened tree stump by the cabin's rear wall wearing one of our stolen coats and smoking a cigarette. There's a cup of something in his lap which he's staring at blankly and it's pretty obvious from his posture that he's feeling crappy and wants to be alone. If I had to guess I'd say he was thinking about my aunt Sarah and missing her to death. He's wearing sunglasses like maybe his eyes hurt and small bloodstains are seeping through his jeans from re-opened cuts. His face is bruised worse than mine in rainbows of purple and yellow and he's redressed his burnt hand in fresh bandages, hiding every inch of skin. The familiar and weirdly comforting scent of antiseptic cream drifts through the smoky haze around us and everything is silent. 

Despite the air pollution it's bitterly cold and I'm already shivering, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my fractured wrist and the aching nausea rattling my stomach. I can put on a pleasant face for poor Frank but I can't keep it up for long and it's already slipping. With Frank trailing behind me, I walk over, hugging my sore ribs and James looks up with a sad half-smile. “Alright lads?”  
“What are you doing out here?” I sigh grouchily, “It's freezing and you should be in bed.”  
James takes a final toke on his cigarette and drops it on the frosty mud, “Just getting some fresh air, and I think I can decide how much bedrest I need, kid.”  
Beside me, Frank is biting the cuff of his left sleeve fidgeting anxiously from one foot to the other, looking like he's about to cry – business as usual in other words. Clearing my throat, I'm about to tell James about Gerard when Frank suddenly decides to talk and blurts out the news himself: “Gerard's real sick, James, you've gotta help him! Please make him better!”

***  
**FRANK'S POV**

I'm not supposed to talk today. She said I couldn't. But I love Gerard so much more than I care about myself and before I know it my tongue, lips and throat have ganged up and told James about Gee being ill. The second I finish speaking I know I'm in deep shit and sure enough She flips some kind of switch in my brain that unleashes a storm of repressed memories and childhood trauma and the real world disappears into the past as I feel - physically FEEL - my old abuser's fat wet tongue slithering in my mouth. No, god, STOP IT! I buried these memories twenty years ago in my childhood innocence and the shock of reliving them now drops me to my knees gagging in the dirt gagging. He's touching me, I can feel Him here! His rough, calloused hands creep out of the dark, under my blankie, pulling at my pajamas and my skin. I want to puke and cry. I want my mommy! A hard adult mouth slurps at my infant penis and slobbers all over my thighs and I'm weeping into my teddy bear but no one can hear me. I'm too small, I'm too weak. I can't fight him and He said He'll kill me if I ever tell!

“Frank what's wrong?” Patrick's voice echoes in the distance, “Is She messing with you again?”  
“Nuh n-no,” I stammer, my words thick with tears. He'll kill me if I tell.  
I know I'm a lost cause. Anything that involves me is a fucked up mess and a waste of time but Gerard means everything, he means the whole word, and he needs help. I still remember he needs help, She can't make me forget that. Forcing myself up off the ground, I run for the cabin door and charge through it without looking where I'm going. All I can see is Him and the darkness and my mind feels like it's in terminal meltdown. I don’t stop running until my body hits a wall and I fall hard onto the sooty floorboards in a shuddering mess. She stands over me hissing in my face: “You shouldn't have disobeyed me, Frank, you little moron!” Then She's laughing and it's all I can hear as His slimy stinking tongue forces it’s way down my throat...

***  
**BRENDON'S P.O.V.**

The door flies open with a bang and Frank bolts through it so fast he can't stop his momentum until he hits the wall by the fireplace and tumbles to the floor. He doesn't seem hurt but he covers his eyes and screams, a raw, agonized cry so loud and desperate that Ryan and Mikey both turn to look and let go of Gerard for a second, letting him sit up and almost fall off the bed. “Hey, pay attention boys,” James warns wearily, walking up to the bed and pressing his unbandaged hand against Gerard‘s forehead, “Take off his coat and shirt and fetch some water too, his temperature's sky-high.”

“STOP! PLEASE! L-LEAVE ME ALONE!” Frank wails hysterically, scrambling into a corner as he stares with terrified eyes at the space around him and claws at his own mouth and body, shrinking in terror from something only he can see, “GO AWAY!”  
“Frankie?” Gerard murmurs, half-opening his dazed eyes as he hears his boyfriend's fear.  
“I didn't mean to!” Frank sobs, crying into his hands, “I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY! I'M STUPID, I’M SORRY! MAKE ME FORGET AGAIN! I WANT TO FORGET!”

“He’s giving me a headache,” Ryan groans, looking pointedly across the bed at James, “Can’t you give him something to shut him up?” Sighing in annoyance, James takes off his sunglasses, revealing blackened bloodshot eyes, and shoots Ryan a glare, “He's hallucinating something traumatic Ry, give him a bloody break! I can't waste the few drugs we have knocking him out and even if I could it wouldn't fix him. I’m just a bloody paramedic, I'm not a real doctor. I can’t fucking fix everyone!”  
“I know that!" Ryan snaps, looking guilty as soon he raises his voice. "I know," he repeats quietly, "I'm sorry. I'll go calm him down." With a sigh he lets go of Gerard and walks away towards Frank.

“Alright then,” James sighs, digging into the medkit bag and cleaning his good hand with sterile wipes, “Can you get out of bed, Bren? I might need your help.”  
“I guess so,” I mumble reluctantly, “But I think hammers are banging nails into my head.”  
“Take some painkillers then. We all feel like shit today, trust me.”  
While we're talking Patrick takes a digital ear thermometer out of the med-kit and reads Gerard’s temperature. “103,” he reports, frowning.  
“Jesus," James swears, “We need to cool him down. Mikey, give him three ibuprofen pills with water and keep the blankets off him. It's this cut on his head, it's infected...how much antibiotics have we got left kid?”  
Patrick checks the medkit again and winces, looking worried and passing it to me, “Not enough for a full course," he frets, "And you need some too for your hand." "Don't worry about me," James mutters quietly, looking down at his bandages, "Gerard needs them. Give them to him."  
“Is he gonna be okay?” Mikey asks timidy, holding his brother’s head up to help him swallow the pills. James shrugs and scratches his head, “Hopefully. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Am I sick?” Gerard mumbles as Mikey lowers his head back onto the damp pillow.  
“Yes but don’t worry, we're gonna make you better,” Mikey smiles, trying to sound positive as I inject most of our last precious antibiotics into his brother's clammy arm. “I'm cold,” Gerard whispers hoarsely, his eyes glazing over as a fierce heat radiates from his skin. James meets my gaze as he spreads iodine on the infected cut and there's a sorrow and regret in his eyes that goes deeper than just Gerard's condition. I don't think this story is going to have a happy ending.

***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

I hate it when Frank has one of his episodes. I mean, I know he can't help it, I know he has problems - we ALL have fucking problems - but the violent, freaky gibberish that comes out of his mouth puts me on edge and makes me want to beat him unconscious until he shuts up. Either that or scream even louder than he does until I’ve drowned him out and I'm coughing my lungs up in shreds.

Of course it's not his fault. I get it. But his constant nervous craziness is damaging the fragile calm it took me weeks to achieve and I hate him for that. I also hate myself for hating him because that’s not who I am. I’m not a hateful person inside. I’m the quiet inoffensive one. I’m the guy who slashed my wrist without saying a word and cried quietly into Brendon’s hair because I was embarrassed to be loud. I don’t like screaming and I don’t like shouting...and I guess I don’t like Frank either. He’s not the same guy I met several months ago and these days it’s impossible for anyone except Gerard to have a rational conversation with him. When he’s quiet, he's fragile and needs supervision like an autistic child and when he's loud he's like a crazed mental patient that needs strapping down. It’s really hard for me to see him as a person anymore: he’s just a problem. A burden. 

I only volunteer to quiet him down while Gerard is sick because l feel bad for snapping at James and the first thought that enters my mind is hitting him in the head with something really hard. I’m frustrated and exhausted beyond all reason today, running on fumes, and I don’t know how I’m still standing. I haven’t been able to see straight since I woke up.

Frank is crouched by the sooty fireplace with his hands jammed over his ears and his eyes screwed shut, twitching and shaking his head as he alternately hollers senseless words at nobody and sobs with fear, tears running in rivers down his dirty face. Very begrudgingly I kneel down on the filthy hearth beside him and make a move to grab one of his arms. He throws a wild punch at my face, eyes snapping open, huge with terror, but lucky for me he’s blinded by panic and tears and I easily dodge his fist and yank his arm down, pulling him towards me. “Be quiet!” I order, looking him right in the face, “It's me, Ryan. RY-AN. You know me. You know I won't hurt you. I just want you to be quiet. Can you do that? Can you do that for Gerard?” 

I don’t expect him to listen or even understand what I'm saying but apparently he does because he stops screaming and just sort of stares past me. I can feel him trembling under my hand and his pale face is a messy finger-painting of snotty sooty smudges. “Frank, can you talk to me? Can you tell me what's wrong?” He doesn’t answer right away so I shake him impatiently and he grabs my arm, dragging me closer. “Ryan...” he whimpers in a sad confused voice, “Are you here now?”  
“Well duh yes.”  
“But you…you can’t see h-him?”  
“See who?”  
“Fuck," Frank sobs, dropping my arm and pressing his fists against his forehead, “You've gotta help me!”  
“Who is he?” I ask carefully, “And who is She? Why are they hurting you? You can talk to me, Frank...Gerard says you can trust me.”  
“Gerard?” Frank sobs, instantly focused on my face, “Can you make Gerard better?”  
“Yes,” I lie, patting his arm like I'd pet a frightened puppy, “We're making him better right now.”  
Frank nods shakily, lost in a daze again, and his eyes mist over, lost inside his tortured head. In the silence that follows I hear my empty stomach growl and glance worriedly over my shoulder at James and Brendon, trying to remember if they’ve eaten anything in the last 24 hours that they were able to digest. They were constantly throwing up yesterday.

“Ryan please c-can’t you shut them out? I can't shut them out,” Frank rambles pitifully, jerking my attention back to him, “I-I can't anymore. I mean I try but She's so strong a-and She knows too m-much. I can’t stop Her now! I try s-so hard it makes m-me sick but I can't make it stop and it hurts...it hurts all the time." Huddling wearily against the wall, he starts to cry again so I quickly engage him in conversation. I guess I feel sorry for the little dude, he looks so tired and sad.  
“Frank,you're talking about someone I can't actually hear or see. You have to tell more. Who is She? Why is She hurting you? You can tell me, it's okay.”

Frank chews hard on his lower lip for a moment and wipes his eyes with a dirty sleeve, smearing even more soot across his wet face. For a while I don't think he's going to say anything else and I've lost him again but then he takes a deep breath and blurts everything out in a big desperate rush.  
“W-When I was little a bad man hurt me, Ry. He hurt me in s-secret ways and I never told anybody. But when He was there, there was this lady in my head who came to help me, a nice lady who sang songs and made me feel safe. She protected me and took me to a white place... bright a-and safe. She sang me to sleep when He was gone. I liked Her but w-when He left for good and I grew up She went away. I guess cos I didn't need her anymore. But then in the city I got real sick and She came back but she didn't sing again and make it better. She w-wasn't the same anymore. She w-was angry and mean! She brought demons to hurt me and I don't know why! I think She hated me for getting sick, and then f-for trying to lie down in the cold. Just lie down and go peacefully... She h-hated me for growing up and not needing Her. And n-now She's always here, She never fucking leaves, and if I don't do what She says She hurts me! She uses Him to hurt me, brings him b-back... She h-hates me, She hates Gerard, hates anyone I like, She hates, SHE FUCKING HATES EVERYTHING! THAT'S ALL SHE FUCKING DOES!”  
Frank is screaming again but I don't care this time. I'm speechless. What he's telling me is horrific. I had no idea this went back to abuse from his childhood or that he has constant flashbacks to that abuse. I mean, fuck, to think that he's been dealing with this shit in his mind on top of all the other crap we've had to deal with in the last few months. No wonder he's so broken.

“N-Now I've been bad again,” he adds hoarsely, his quivering voice dissolving in fresh streams of tears, “I was bad and I spoke and She's mad again. She's showing me what He did all over again, over a-and over again and She's just laughing... Oh god, please, m-make them stop! Please just make it stop! I can't take it anymore. I'm s-so tired! I can't feel this anymore...”  
Trembling and weeping, he lurches forward, collapsing towards the floor and I quickly pull him up into a hug, rubbing his back and feeling the bones in his spine through his clothes as he sobs and whimpers into my shoulder, clutching at me like a scared little kid and I guess that's what he is right now. I think Mikey and the others are staring at us but I don't care.  
“Frankie...Shit, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to help,” I whisper miserably, my eyes stinging with saltwater, “You're asking me to stop a noise I can't even hear. How am I supposed to...” 

Then suddenly I have an idea. I think I know how to drown out some of Frank’s awful voices, at least for a little while. Well maybe. Jumping up, I rush back to the armchair between the beds, squeeze past Mikey and James, and pick up the old CD walkman I found last night. Slipping the large padded headphones over my ears, I press the ‘power’ and ’play’ buttons, only half-expecting the thing to work, but it does. The CD whirs into life and a stream of warm soft Soul music flows into my ears. It's soothing and beautiful and a bittersweet reminder of long ago past lives and far-away sun.

Going back to Frank, I place the headphones over his ears and let the music play and he flinches and glares at me suspiciously as tinkling piano keys and melodious vocals overwhelm his unsuspecting ears. Then his jaw drops slightly in surprise and the clouds of fear and desperation start to clear from his face. I sit down beside him and watch as he gradually lift his open hands to the headphones and press them harder against his ears, his posture relaxing by degrees every second. I actually feel relieved for him.

Whatever the music is doing to his demons, it's a definite improvement since the frantic distress in his raw green eyes is fading gradually to calm exhausted relief.  
“They...It‘s quiet,” he breathes shakily, cradling the precious Walkman in his hands. “She’s quiet and I can't ...can't f-feel Him anymore. Thank you."  
Smiling cautiously in wonder, he leans back against the wall and takes some deep breaths, relaxing his shaking limbs and the problem I saw before is becoming a person again. I feel bad for ever being mad at him. His tortured prison of monsters and madness is peeling away a little while the music lasts and I can see so clearly how he’s been trapped in a draining agonising hell this whole time trying to break free and always seeming to fail. 

I wish Gerard could see this change too because he’s never given up on Frank and deserves to see his boyfriend feeling better, but he's wrecked with fever right now and nothing he sees is going to stick with him for long. Talk about bad timing. “But if I stop listening to the music they’ll come back, won't they,” Frank says sadly, his relief already fading. “Maybe,” I admit, pulling some clean toilet paper out of my hoodie pocket and passing it to him to wipe his face.  
“Yeah, they will,” he sighs, blowing his nose with the paper and trying to smile through his tears, “They always do.”


	24. Fade

**MIKEY'S P.O.V.**

Somehow Ryan manages to calm down Gerard's weird friend and the cabin falls quiet and still in the afternoon light. Releasing a tense breath I didn't know I was holding, I inhale the room's sleepy closed-in smell of body heat and musty blankets and try to relax. Water drips from the bowl in my hands as I wipe Gerard’s burning forehead, and I can hear everyone breathing tiredly in sequence.

Laying the damp cool cloth on Gerard's chest, I glance behind me and see Frank and Ryan sitting together on the floor by the hearth looking weirdly sedated, like they're sleeping with their eyes open. Frank is resting his chin on his knees, wearing the same headphones Ryan was playing with earlier, and his pinched tear-stained face looks peaceful enough so I guess he finally cried himself to exhaustion. Ryan is slumped wearily against the wall holding a near-empty water bottle and staring at it, or through it, with dazed eyes. I only met him last night but there's a sad kind of stillness about him that I recognize and it makes me shiver. Judging by the fat scar on his wrist, he's tried checking out of this life for good on at least one occasion and he's thinking about it again today. I’ve seen that same look on so many faces since the Virus apocalypse went down, including my own.

Thinking about death doesn't scare me anymore as long as I get to choose my own fate. I’m tired of running and so fucking pissed off with being afraid. I don’t mind dying if Gerard is beside me now since a couple of days ago I never thought I'd be lucky enough to die peacefully with someone I care about instead of alone inside a psycho killer's house.  
We'll all be dead and gone soon, every one of us. It's a depressing thought sure, but there’s no denying reality. We might sleep forever right here in this cobwebbed cabin or fall outside on the empty roads but either way it'll be soon. We’ll run out of clean water, food and medicine and then it'll only be a matter of days before our lights start going out.

I can’t be the only one who’s thinking about the end. Ryan clearly is and James looks like a part of him is already gone. The others are all hurt or sick so they must know how serious the situation is. Sure we found a shelter but we’re still miles from anything that even remotely resembles civilization. Every plant, bug and critter in this county is dead or dying and we don’t have any real food - just a few crackers and crushed cookies. We’re drinking our only bottles of water and when they're gone we’ll have nothing to drink except our own piss, or if we’re lucky maybe some rain that‘s not too full of chemicals. I suppose a couple of us could make it to the closest highway, steal a car and try to drive the forty miles or so to the next town to see if there's anything left to scavenge but who would go? Gerard is too weak to get out of bed and if I left the cabin I’d have to leave my brother behind...

“Mikey?” he suddenly whispers in a dry croak, breaking me out of my thoughts.  
“Yeah Gee, I'm right here.”  
“Thirsty...”  
“Okay, hold on.” With numb hands I soak up some more water from the bowl with the cloth and squeeze it out onto his parched lips. He laps the water like a cat and frowns fearfully, his glassy eyes unfocused. “Is it dark?” he whimpers, trembling as his skin gets warmer under my fingers, “I can’t s-see you so good.”  
He’s sweating so he should be cooling down now but his skin is still so hot. I think he’s getting worse. “Yeah,” I lie, looking miserably around the day-lit room, “It’s pretty dark.”  
Brendon is still stitching up the cut on my brother’s head and he glances over at me with his one good eye. "It’s just the fever talking,” he whispers, “He'll improve soon.”  
“Sure,” I mumble hoarsely as a hot lump rises in my throat.

Fuck this shit! I might be prepared for my own exit but I don’t want Gerard to go first. The thought of losing him again sends waves of terror and anger crashing through me and I kick the bedpost near my feet as hard as I can to try and release some of these awful feelings. Gerard doesn’t deserve to die like this. None of us do. This is so fucking UNFAIR! FUCK!

Gerard flinches at the noise so I leave the bed alone and turn away so he won’t see the tears in my eyes. James is slumped in an armchair behind me staring into space and the strawberry-blond kid with the broken arm...Philip? Patrick? I can't remember his name...is curled up asleep on the other mattress. The weak sunshine trickling through gaps in the drapes lights up the bruises on their battered faces in bright painful colors. The kid has blood in his dirty hair.

Brendon finishes up and carefully pastes a clean band-aid over Gerard's wound and I watch my brother anxiously while the medicine in his blood tries to fix him long enough so he can starve to death with the rest of us. God, please don't let him die here. Taking one of his warm hands in mine, I bite my tongue and wonder frantically how much time he'll have left once we run out of drugs and water. I’ve imagined my own death a hundred times since the Virus changed the world but I don't want to think about Gerard's even once! I can't let him die here without knowing I did absolutely everything in my power to save him. I have to do something before it's too late.

***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

The day wears on hour after hour and I do nothing but sit and ignore the world outside of my head. I can't be bothered to get up and I'm too tired to fall asleep and my mind fills with ashes and graves and blood and darkness until I’m nearly catatonic with depression. The bottle in my hands drops and rolls away at some point but I don’t see it go. It just isn't there anymore. My eyes may as well be blind. Over time my aching legs and back go numb against the hard wall and floor but I don't feel the discomfort until I finally snap out of my reverie several hours later.

Night seems to have fallen and an orange fire is crackling hot and loud in the hearth beside me. My cheeks are seared with the heat so I shuffle away from the flames and gasp with pain as blood flows back into my cramped legs and fills them with tiny needles. Groaning softly, I feel my dry lips pull at my gums and realize I’m incredibly thirsty but can’t remember where I am or where the water is. Where is everybody else for that matter? I can hear scratching noises and breathing in the dark but my eyes are misty and I can‘t see. The fire burns on loudly next to me but I can’t make out its flames anymore. Have I gone blind?! “Nicky," I whimper, “H-Help..."

Idiot. Nick is gone and he's never coming back. I remember that now and a new wave of grief hits me square in the gut. It’s been so long since I held Nick's beautiful body or kissed his loving face and I miss him so much it hurts. Brendon once told me that grief gets easier with time, and I believed him, but now we're probably gonna die very VERY soon and that makes Brendon's words irrelevant. Nothing can heal with time when there is NO TIME!

Nick and Ray are already gone. Death is already here, stalking us all, lurking outside the cabin door waiting to cut us down. I always knew I would die young but tonight I can feel the reaper coming for me, about to devour my body in the dark. My skin is suddenly ice and my breath freezes in my lungs. Over the crackle and hiss of the fire a loud bang sounds as the cabin door swings open and then everything is noise and terror as a flood of grave dirt hits my chest and knocks me down, drowning me in earth and bones! Coughing and choking, I’m crushed against the floorboards as cemetery soil piles over me. Dirt pours down my throat and nose and seals my eyes shut and death’s icy tendrils grip my lungs in a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter!

Is this how Nick felt when he was dying on the attic floor, scared and shaking as his drugged blood dragged him down into a place so dark and cold he could never get up again? Mud clogs my airways and drowns the last spark of my life as it buries me forever and ever. I can‘t breathe, I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE!!

“Ryan, wake up!”  
Ray? No it can‘t be Ray, Ray’s dead. He died and he left me alone. Why am I always alone?  
“RYAN!”

Gasping stale cabin air, I cough and cry myself awake and realize I've fallen asleep on the floor where I‘ve been all day. There’s no gravedirt burying me yet and no cold touch of Death. I can breathe and I’m alive and I feel weak with relief. The suffocating darkness lifts away and shows me Brendon’s bandaged face and the warm firelight. “Ryan?” he asks anxiously, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah uh huh,” I stammer stupidly, sitting up and wincing as my whole body aches from lying on the floor. I’m light-headed and gasping for breath and my hands are shaking. Droplets of tears or sweat are rolling off my chin to splatter the dusty floorboards and I want to be sick. “You look terrible,” Brendon frets, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder, “Nightmares again?”  
“I don’t remember,” I lie, curling my shivering hands into fists and looking around the dim, quiet cabin. It really is night-time and a warm fire is crackling in the hearth, casting dim orange light and dancing shadows over everything. Gerard and Frank are sleeping in each other's arms on one of the beds and James is lying on the other. Patrick is sitting on the floor in a nest of blankets reading a book with a small flashlight perched on his shoulder and he glances up at me with a worried frown before going back to his novel. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to relax but my throat still feels clogged with freezing earth. “I can't do this a-anymore, Bren,” I whisper miserably, hiding my face in my hands as more dumb tears spill from my eyes, “I can’t keep waking up and realizing Nick’s dead all over again!”

“Oh Ry,” Brendon murmurs sadly, rubbing my back while I smother my sobs with my fingers, “Here, take this,” He nudges a water bottle against my hands and I grab it and take a much-needed drink. It's half-empty and the water tastes stale but I‘m so thirsty I don’t care. After I've had a few small gulps Brendon grabs it back again and screws the cap on. He doesn’t need to explain why he‘s rationing it but it seems pointless to me since we’re all going to die anyway. “Can you stand?” he asks and I shrug in answer, hating my frailness. I’m physically shaking with the effort of making myself stop crying as I slowly wipe my face on my hands and lick the salty teardrops off my skin. “Come on,” Brendon whispers, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling us both up from the floor, “Let's get you somewhere comfy.”

Somehow we make it over to the fat squishy armchair between the beds and I sit down gratefully, so drained of energy that I can barely lift my head. “Have you eaten anything today?” Brendon sighs.  
“Have you?” I reply tiredly.  
“Yeah I had to. Nearly passed out on my way to the shitter. James made me eat some goldfish crackers. Yummy.” With a half-hearted grimace, he sits down on the end of Frank and Gerard's bed and picks up a crumpled box from the sheets. The mattress shifts under his small weight but the guys are fast asleep and don’t react to the motion. Gerard is curled up under a thin sheet, breathing roughly like has has a cold. He's shirtless and his dark hair is wet with sweat and sticking in damp strands to his forehead. He’s probably going to die before the rest of us. I wonder how long he has left. Beside him Frank is lying under some coats with one arm wrapped around his lover and the headphones I gave him earlier still covering his ears. He’s frowning in his sleep.

“We broke Gerard’s fever,” Brendon reports in a low voice as he shakes a handful of cracker bits into his palm, “But it took hours and he’s really weak. He can just about swallow water and soda without barfing but we’ve run out of antibiotics and IV's now so if he gets worse again he won‘t have much of a chance.” Shaking his head, Brendon gingerly touches his bandaged eye for a moment and a flicker of pain passes over his pale face. Then he hands me the crackers. “Eat.”

The dry food tastes like sawdust and I chew and swallow it monotonously. When I’m done Brendon lets me have another sip of water to wash it down and then he shoots me a sly smile and pulls a small coffee-house packet of sugar out of his pocket. I haven‘t seen packaged sugar in months and I’m stunned. “Where did you get that?"

Brendon blushes, “It was in the pocket of the coat I stole from the bad guys’ house. D'you wanna share?” He adds, looking cutely at me through his black hair.  
“Sure.”  
Very carefully, he tears open the tiny packet and tips the white sugar grains into his palm before nudging them into two small mounds, one for me and one for him. To make sure that none of the rare treat is wasted, he lets me lick my half out of his hand like a pony and then he does the same.  
“I hope your hands are clean,” I joke, leaning back in the soft chair. I think I’m trying to sound teasing but my voice comes out flat and judgemental and the brief happiness vanishes from his face. “Well yeah, I cleaned them to look after Gerard,” he says quietly, “But considering everything I don't think cleanliness is what we should be worrying about tonight.”  
“Yeah. I guess not.”  
Shit. Why do I always have to remind people how terrible their lives are when they’re trying to make the best of it? I’m such an idiot.

“Don’t do that,” Brendon says quickly.  
“Do what?”  
“Don’t beat yourself up about what you said,” Brendon insists, “I can see you doing it and you shouldn’t. Please, Ry, give yourself a break. Don’t look so sad.”  
“It's the end of the world. How am I supposed to look?”  
“Sorry, yeah that sounded dumb. Of course you look sad, we’re all sad. But y'know..I hate seeing YOU sad.”  
“I know.”  
“Remember that night in the truck-stop when I told you how much I care about you? When I told you I would face the world for you and fight for you if you felt like you couldn't do it yourself? I wasn’t lying, Ry, and I still want to protect you, even if this is the end. I guess I sort of... Well I care more about you than we really talk about. But this isn't like a come on or anything... Shit. I dunno. I mean maybe we could…” Trailing off, he clears his throat and shakes his head, “Never mind,” he says sheepishly, “I always sound less stupid in my head.”  
“Brendon...”  
“I can’t even think straight tonight, I’m so tired. I-”  
“Do you have a crush on me?”

I can’t believe I just asked that juvenile high school question. Words cannot express how ridiculous this conversation is when we’re facing a slow death from thirst and hunger, but on the other hand this shouldn’t be the time for secrets either and I can tell by Brendon’s embarrassed and guilty expression that I’m right. He does have romantic feelings for me and I guess it’s kind of sweet. But even though he’s kind and brave and caring and sure pretty gorgeous under all those bandages, I can’t return those feelings. He’s my friend and that‘s all. Nicholas is the only man I ever loved and he‘s gone and I can’t face trying again with anyone else. I need Brendon to be my friend but I don't want him to be anything more, it‘s just too painful. I can‘t deal with it while I‘m even still slightly sane.  
“I’m sorry Bren,” I tell him gently, hating myself, “But I can’t feel that way about you, and I don’t think I can be around you if that’s what you want.”

Brendon’s face falls about a mile and he gets up awkwardly, fumbling with the cracker box as a tear leaks from his good eye and he wipes it quickly away, blushing with embarrassment, “No, hey no, I'm sorry,” he says in an unsteady voice, “That was really inappropriate of me. Please, just forget I said anything. It's fine, it's nothing.”  
Turning away, he sighs and walks over to the blankets near the fireplace where Patrick is trying his best to pretend he can't hear us. Guilt and confusion clench tightly in my chest and I want to say something to make him feel better. “Brendon, wait. I don’t want you to stay away from me, I just don‘t think we- ”  
The words die in my throat as Frank suddenly lurches upright in bed and his headphones fall off his ears into a tangle of coats and blankets. “Mom?” he whimpers blearily, his eyes barely open as he fumbles sideways like he’s searching for something and almost falls off the narrow mattress, “Mommy p-please...”  
“Here we go again,” Brendon sighs, walking back, “Hey Frank, are you okay buddy?”  
“He’ll find me,” Frank whines fearfully, looking through Brendon like he isn’t even there, “Where’d you go, little one, where are you?”  
Brendon frowns in confusion, “Huh?”  
“He's still asleep, dude,” I tell him grumpily, “Just give him back the headphones.”

Rolling his eyes, Brendon checks that the battered walkman is still playing music and returns the headphones to Frank’s ears. Frank swipes blindly at the air for a moment and mumbles something I can't hear before his eyes drop closed and he flops limply back onto the sheets, lost in sleep again. “Well,” Brendon mumbles, looking anywhere but at me, “That was weird.”

James yawns and rolls over onto his back, rubbing his eyes as he wakes up and sees us standing around. “Morning,” he grunts, sitting up gingerly with a hand on his bruised ribs, “Or Evening, is it?”  
“It's still dark out,” Patrick sighs.  
“Of course it is,” James mutters, “I’ll get up now and keep an eye on Gerard. You boys can have this bed if you're sick of the floor.”  
“Brendon can have the bed to himself,” I say quickly, “I’ve already slept.”  
“Fine,” James shrugs, slowly standing up and grabbing a spare coat. He's shivering feverishly and his burned hand looks completely immobile under the thick bandages. "How are you feeling?" Patrick asks his uncle worriedly, walking over with his busted arm cradled against his chest. “Like death warmed up," James answers with a faint attempt at a smile. "Hang on, is someone missing? Where’s Mikey?”  
“He's gone,” Brendon answers gloomily, throwing a fresh log on the fire. “Where?” James and I ask at the same time. I didn't even notice Gerard's brother was missing. “I don’t know. As soon as Gerard was sleeping properly, Mikey said he was going to get some help and then he took a flashlight and a coat and left. That was a while ago now.”  
“You just let him leave by himself?” James frowns.  
“Hey, it's not like we could've stopped him,” Patrick says defensively.  
Silence fills the cabin while we digest this news and then James sighs and goes to check on Gerard and the rest of us go back to our books and thoughts and sleep. I hope Mikey finds a miracle out there because I'm sure as hell nothing else is going to save us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((What will Mikey find? stay tuned and let me know what you think sweethearts! xo))


	25. Surviving

**MIKEY'S POV**

I had to get out of there. The stale air and sense of doom made me feel crazy and I couldn’t stand seeing Gerard so ill and helpless. Once his fever broke I waited until he was asleep then told Brendon I was leaving to find help. He and Patrick looked at me like I was nuts but they weren’t strong enough to stop me so I drank a little water, grabbed my coat, a flashlight and the knife I stole from that bitch Giselle, and left. I don’t know what I’m going to find on these endless hills and empty highways except death and silence, but if there's even a small chance of stumbling across something to save us, I have to try. Who knows, I might find a better-supplied cabin or a working truck full of gas, or even some other survivors who have medicine and food and aren't complete and total psychopaths. Anything's possible, right? 

Ugh, who am I kidding. My prospects are still as gloomy out in the cold as they were inside in the warm and I only make it about half a mile before I want to go back but I can't because what is there to go back to? Just sickness and starvation. My only hope is to keep going until I find something of use so I walk for hours through the endless dark until the red dawn comes and the gray sun rises in the empty sky. I'm shivering with cold but sweating with anxiety, jumping at every sound, every rustling leaf and snapping twig. From time to time in the distance I think I hear the choppy sound of helicopter blades and my muscles tense with fear at the thought of Hunters finding me out here on my own. I eat the one chocolate bar I brought with me and stop to rest under a hedge for a while, falling asleep and waking up hours later to find the sky as black as ink again and cockroaches swarming all over my legs. My tiny flashlight is the only speck of illumination for miles around and the dead earth and withered trees are as silent as tombstones. Oh god I'm going to die out here! I'm so sorry Gee...

Shaking more with terror than cold, I force myself to carry on over the icy hillsides until my legs and lungs are burning and I'm sick with hopelessness, but at long last I reach a long grassy slope leading down to a smooth wide concrete river: the highway. My throat is parched and I'm light-headed from hunger as I stumble and slide down the slope and hit the road, heading for the nearest abandoned vehicle. But I only get a few paces before the deep shadows burst into life and several hands shoot out of the darkness and grab my arms and legs, dragging me to the ground!

***  
**FRANK'S P.O.V.**

I think it’s okay to die when the whole world dies with you. Maybe we should all just be put out of our misery. This planet is trying it's best to kill us and I want to give up and let it. Like I told Ryan, I'm so tired of fighting and crying and losing every battle and I'm tired of monsters and blood being all I ever see. If I give up now and just lie down and die then I won't be killing myself. It's the world that killed me.

I hope there's no heaven or hell. When I die I just want to go away forever and not know or see or feel or hear anything at all. Not even She can escape that... Fuck. The walkman is running low on batteries and I'm crying again. The music Ryan gave me is gonna stop soon and then where will I be? When will He come for me?

There is still a small part of me that's scared of dying too: scared of being without Gerard and scared that my last action on earth will be to break his heart because I know he doesn't want me to die. I love him so much, way more than my own miserable life and I know he loves me back but fuck, I must be such a burden to him. He always puts me before himself. He fights for me and cares for me and sacrifices his own comfort and safety and health and sanity for me every damn day and sometimes it's too much for him. I feel like shit for making him suffer just to protect me and I don't want him to do it anymore. I owe him so much, he's saved my life a dozen times and how do I repay him? By getting in more trouble again and again. I'm broken inside and I know that. I'm a freak, torn up in the head, and nothing can fix me out here in the dark. 

All I want is to be able to tell Gerard how amazing and brave and beautiful he is but She won’t let me and even when he's nearly dying I still can't say the words. I'm useless and stupid and scared and I fucking hate it but She won’t let me talk without making me puke or see Him... And this dying world won’t let me live. So I guess I’ll be taking all these thoughts to the grave soon. In a few days everyone in this cabin will be a dehydrated corpse and there won’t be anyone left to remember me or Gerard or our love for each other or anything at all.

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

When I wake I have no idea where I am. Everything aches, breathing aches, opening my eyes aches, and I‘m desperately hungry and thirsty. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and my skin feels sticky and cold. Shifting my legs under tangled sheets, I shiver pathetically, wanting to curl up into a tiny tired ball and wonder why I even woke up at all because I feel so exhausted, right down into my bones. Then full consciousness floods back to me bringing with it scattered sounds: loud bangs, hysterical giggling, smashing glass, someone crying; and I realize that all this noise is the reason I'm no longer asleep. Where am I? Forcing my crusty eyes open I see the familiar cobwebbed rafters of the cabin ceiling drift into focus and vaguely remember falling down somewhere and people touching my head... A white object abruptly flies across my field of vision and I hear a high-pitched crash like breaking china. What the hell? 

Rolling onto my side, I groan loudly as a barrage of nauseous shivers wrack my body and everything I see is doubled for a few seconds. The thin blanket draped over me is clinging to my damp dirty skin but most of my clothes are gone and my hair feels itchy. I can smell my own sour sweat. “Mikey?” I mumble in a dry croak. No answer. More crashes and crying-laughing. This is getting scary. Groping across the sheets I find the solid lump of another warm body next to mine and give them a weak shove. “Frank?” I whisper hopefully, “Frankie?” They shift around on the mattress and poke their tousled head out from under the covers and I'm glad to see that it is my little Frankie. At least he's not the one crying or throwing things. 

He’s wearing a pair of over-ear headphones and his face is dazed and puffy with sleep. The small pink scars on his cheek and under his eye from the beating the Hunters gave him in the city look like strokes of paint on his paper white skin. With an anxious frown he gazes across the pillows at me with those big gorgeous eyes of his and I feel a tiny bit better. “Hey Gee,” he whispers, carefully slipping off the headphones before quickly kissing me on the cheek with dry warm lips, “Are you okay? They told me they could fix you but I wasn't sure if-” His voice suddenly cracks and he stops talking, looking guilty and biting his lip. I know that look. It means that She's around and doesn't want him talking to me. I wonder if he sees Her lying in bed with us or if She's standing nearby like some creepy voyeur. If I could see that invisible bitch I'd probably strangle Her.  
“Is there water?” I ask hoarsely, trying to ignore his sudden silence and the mysterious chaos going on across the room. Frank nods and rolls over, grabbing a bottle off the floor and passing it to me. I prop myself up on an aching elbow and take a long gulp to quench my thirst. My hands are unsteady and make the bottle shake, spilling some water down my chin which Frank mops gently with his sleeve. Another china object – it looks like a plate – goes flying across the large room and shatters against the fireplace, making me jump. I'm too scared to look at what's happening and keep my eyes on Frank as he grabs the edge of my blanket and pulls it up over both of our heads so we're hidden underneath it like kids playing in a bed-fort. “Hey," I whisper, “What's going on out there?”  
In the dim shadows of the blanket, Frank looks down at his pillow, still silent and then I hear Ryan's voice yell 'You fucking fucker!' and the sound of a someone getting slapped. “Frank, talk to me," I beg, "What's happening?”

Gazing sadly at me with puppy-dog eyes, Frank reaches outside the covers again and this time his hand comes back with the digital ear thermometer from James' medkit. He takes my temperature and sighs with relief. “98 point 2,” he reads off the tiny screen in a timid whisper, “That's good, I think. You'll feel better soon and She can't see us under here so we're okay for now. Just shhhh.”  
“No Frankie, listen, you have to talk to me,” I grumble impatiently, taking another swig of stale water as several more crashes ring out nearby, “What are the others doing? Who's throwing stuff and where is Mikey? Where's James for that matter? Why do you have his medkit?” With each new question my stomach tightens with dread at what the answers might be. How long was I unconscious? A whole day or even two could have passed since I was last awake! The weird crying-laughing sound from outside our fort gets louder and I realize it's Brendon. “Frankie, please.”  
Frank swallows hard and his quivering eyes dart back and forth across every crease and fold in our blanket cave before he finally answers. “James got really sick,” he whispers reluctantly, dropping the thermometer and half-raising his hands to his ears like he wants to cover them up, “His burns...they got infected or septic or s-something. I dunno, but it's bad and Brendon can't help him cos we've run out of antibiotics. He gave them all to you yesterday...or was it the day before? You were really sick then and we didn't know about James, no one knew and he didn't say anything. But the antibiotics fixed you, right? Please tell me they fixed you cos there aren't anymore!”  
Ohmygod. “Yeah, don't worry,” I reassure him, squeezing one of his arms gently, “They fixed me.” I don't even know if I'm lying or not. I still feel pretty shit but if I don't have a fever anymore then I must be doing okay. Frank keeps talking, getting more and more distressed, and his eyes soon overflow with glistening tears, “Patrick's really upset,” he whimpers, “He says James is gonna d-die! Mikey's gone too. He left ages ago to find some help before we even knew about James and he didn't come back. I'm s-so sorry. Everything's falling apart...Brendon and Ryan had some kind of fight about Ryan wanting to hurt himself or something. I dunno but it was loud. I pretended to be asleep w-with my music so they'd leave me alone but I know in the end they both gave up. None of us are gonna survive this shit Ryan said and he's right isn't he? The foods gone and the water's just what you're holding. Mikey's still missing and maybe there is no help out there anymore... m-maybe every sane person is dead, Gee, and now we're dying too! Ray's dead and James is dying. We're all fucking dying! She told me this would happen. She told me but I didn't wanna lie down. I didn't want to but now I think I do. It's really happening, the world is ending and it's ending right now so w-why should we fight it? I'm tired of fighting, Gee. It's so hard and it never ever ends." "Oh Frankie..." I whisper, stroking my hand up his arm and neck and into his hair, "Baby, don't talk like that. We have to keep fighting, there's no other choice." Frank sniffles and looks away, shaking my hand off his head as his shoulders slump in defeat. "We could take some pills," he adds quietly, "Get wasted and try to forget it's all fading away. I'd give anything to forget Her now. Ryan found some pills and he and Brendon took a bunch of them.”  
“What kind of pills?” I ask fearfully, struggling to process each new horrifying detail of his story. Frank takes a short sobbing breath and pulls the blanket off our heads, helping me sit up and see the rest of the cabin for myself. Well SHIT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Agh, sorry it's been so long between updates lovelies, work has been crazy this week. Please comment and let me know if you're still out there ;) Who's got Mikey and what the fuck are Brendon and Ryan doing? What am I doing for that matter?? xxx))


	26. Lost

**GERARD'S POV**

Ryan is crouched on a cabinet in the tiny kitchen area grinning and twitching like a madman with blood soaking through one of his sleeves as he pulls plates and cups out of the cupboards and hurls them across the room at the hearth where they explode in showers of white shards. His cheeks are flushed and smeared with streaks of dirt and his glazed eyes are huge and staring in his thin face as he alternates between throwing things, howling obscenities and laughing manically. By the fireplace, Brendon is ducking and dodging under each new missile of breaking china and throwing chunks of blackened wood and coal back at Ryan while half-crying, half-giggling like a depressed hyena. His hair is spiky with sweat and his hands are stained black. Someone has ripped the bandages off his face, revealing his stitches and fucked-up eye to the world. 

Staring at the two manic kids open-mouthed, I barely register the fact that the fire is blazing way too hot and high now: foot-long flames gorging on a pile of broken furniture and huge crackling logs, several of which have rolled out of the grate and are burning on the hearth around Brendon's unsteady feet amid the shattered plates.  
“What‘s wrong with them?” I whisper fearfully, shrinking back against my pillow, “What the hell are they doing?”  
Frank shakes his head and wraps his skinny arms around my chest, hiding his face in my shoulder. I can feel his warm breath on my skin. “They're fighting,” he mumbles.  
“They're tripping,” a quiet voice adds from behind us. Turning in surprise I see Patrick sitting motionless on the floor between the beds with his broken arm cupped in his lap and medical gloves on his hands. His bruised eyes are ringed red from crying and beyond him James is lying on the other bed pale and still with strange purple blotches mottling his forearm above his bandaged hand. “Blood poisoning,” Patrick explains shakily before I can ask, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve and staring down at the dusty floorboards, “I sedated him to make him comfortable but there's nothing else I can do. We don't have the right medications to fight it. There's nothing left.”  
Horrified, I try to think of something to say but nothing seems appropriate or right. Patrick sniffs quietly and shakes his matted hair out of his eyes, dragging tearful breaths into his lungs. "It won't be long now," he sighs.

Across the cabin Ryan finally runs out of china to throw and Brendon shakes off the last broken shards, tiny dots of blood glistening on his cheeks and neck, before charging at the older boy, his sooty hands slipping in the blood on Ryan's skin as he pulls him off the cabinet and they both tumble to the floor. They wrestle clumsily for a moment before Ryan pulls a fist back and punches Brendon's damaged face. “Why. Won't. You. Let. Me. Die?!” he screams, hitting his friend again and again with each new word until Brendon starts crying with pain and shoves him away.

“What the fuck did they take?” I ask Patrick anxiously as Frank suddenly jerks away from me and starts frantically fumbling in the sheets for his headphones. Patrick shrugs wearily and rubs his eyes, “Pills. Unmarked stuff. Hallucinogens, maybe some downers too. Who cares? They just don't want to die sober and I don't blame them.” Across the room the fire spits out another burning log and Ryan crawls on top of a still-weeping Brendon and starts sucking on his neck like it’s made of ice cream. I can’t take much more of this...

Frank finds his headphones and puts them on, mumbling panicky jibberish under his breath but when he presses PLAY on the walkman nothing happens and his sweet face falls about a mile. The batteries are dead and he stares with terrified eyes at the useless piece of technology, “No, no, no, no, no! You can't be... NO!”  
“It's okay, Frankie,” I say quickly, pulling him into a cuddle, “I'm here now. Ignore Her and focus on me, okay? I won't let Her near you.” Frank squishes himself against me so hard I think I hear my ribs creak and his face is as white as a ghost. “But He'll come back,” he whimpers, fixing his dilated eyes on mine with such heartbreaking fear I almost can't stand it, “I don't want Him to come back!”  
“I won't let Him get you, sweetheart, I promise.”  
"He broke m-me,” he sobs, pulling the blanket over his eyes and trembling in my arms, “We're all broken now...Me, you...James, Brendon, everyone! We’re all gonna die here and I didn't want it to be true but She said it was and now it is, it was always fucking true! I can’t watch you die here Gee, I love you too much, I love you and I can't watch you leave me, I can't!”  
He’s rambling almost manically, making himself worse and all I can do is rub his back and hold him close and hope that Ryan and Brendon keep their weird drugged-out spectacle away from us. Patrick shoots me a sympathetic look and wearily gestures at the med-kit but I don't want poor Frankie sedated. At least if he's awake I can help him calm down. When he's unconscious his terrors are beyond my reach. 

“Everything's so loud...SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he groans, pressing his hands over his ears so hard his arms are shaking, “I can't see you, you fuckers! I see what I see and I know what I know. I’m not stupid, I fucking know!”  
“Shhhh, it's alright,” I murmur, stroking his cheek with my thumb as he burrows his face into my neck. It's definately not alright though and I feel sick in my stomach at the thought of how much worse this awful day could still get if and when James dies and Brendon and Ryan either kill each other, overdose or come down. Where the fuck is Mikey?! How could he leave me like this?

***  
**MIKEY'S POV**

I hit the ground so hard the breath is knocked from my body and someone large and heavy sits on my back, pinning me to the road. A cloth bag is shoved over my head and I hear the loud click of a gun and oh fuck fuck FUCK! Giselle’s friends must have found me! 

A sharp pinch bites into my left hand and I hear the muffled *bleep* of a Virus scanner sounding ‘NEGATIVE’. Then a woman’s voice - curt and formal - reports “He’s clean,” and there's a sigh of relief from multiple people including the heavy dude on my back before a man‘s voice adds: “Good. Check him for weapons and bring him to the Huey.” Isn’t a Huey a type of helicopter? WHAT THE HELL?! Are these Hunters?!

The weight on my back disappears and firm hands pat me down, confiscating Giselle’s knife from my pocket, before hauling me to my feet and cuffing my hands behind my back.  
“What the fuck’s going on? Who are you people?!” I yell hysterically, sweating, blind and scared out of my gourd.  
“It’s alright, sir, please remain calm,” answers the same man who spoke before as we start walking briskly forward with someone guiding me by the shoulders, “We’re United States Air Force. We’re not affiliated with the Hunters and we won’t hurt you unless you give us a reason to.” His voice is steady and calm and something tells me he isn’t lying, so I obediently walk without struggling as I’m pushed along a path to who-knows-where. “So… you guys are real military?” There’s a few seconds of silence broken only by the sound of booted feet. Then the same man replies, “Yes.”  
“Well then no offence but where the fuck have you been all this time?! I mean all you soldier types just disappeared after the bombings started and everyone thought you were dead. If some of you survived why’d you leave us at the mercy of the fucking Hunters?”

“Shut up!” the woman hisses in my ear, and I realise that she is the one guiding my steps. “It‘s alright Simmons, he can speak freely,” the man sighs.  
“Yes Sarge. Sorry Sarge,” she apologises.  
“Besides he‘s right” the Sarge adds quietly, “The armed forces could have done a better job of protecting people, and we would have if more of us had survived the outbreak and those dicks in government hadn’t done what they did.”

“What did they do?” I ask cautiously, getting a little light-headed as I inhale carbon dioxide inside my sack. “They betrayed us,” Simmons spits bitterly.  
“Fuckin’ right,” agrees the voice of a third soldier, another man, who is walking somewhere behind me and has a strong Californian accent, “Those assholes abandoned us after we were hit by the Virus and unleashed their own army of bastard super soldiers called Hunters to destroy the cities.”  
“The Hunters were being secretly recruited and brainwashed by the government from as early as the 1970s,” Sarge explains glumly, “Of course we only found out about them after the Virus went global. My platoon was overseas guarding an embassy in the Middle East. When every single sonofabitch around me began to get sick and die I realised that the Virus had become airborne and no one in the world was safe. For some reason I stayed healthy so I sought out any other surviving soldiers and found Simmons and Delonge here and a couple of others. Everyone else was already dying. We found out soon after that martial law had taken over in the States and it was every man for himself. Then we lost contact. By the time we managed to escape the infected Saudis and found enough fuel to fly ourselves home, the Hunters were in total control and everyone else was dead or stuck in locked-down cities.”  
“Or just totally fucked-up,” Delonge's voice finishes.

“Oh…kay,” I say slowly, swallowing hard, “But if the Virus is airborne how come you guys are still alive? Why am I for that matter?”  
“Good questions, dude,” Delonge remarks, “But we don’t have the answers.”  
“Actually, I have a theory,” Simmons argues, “In the case of every virus and plague throughout World history, even the Bubonic Plague, there were always some people, a tiny fraction of the population, who had a natural immunity to the disease and never got sick. Since we’re still alive after all this time it stands to reason that we are some of the lucky few immune to the Virus.”  
“Maybe,” Sarge sighs, “Maybe not. All that matters right now is that we keep each alive and try to evacuate as many healthy survivors as we can.”  
“Evacuate?” I ask in astonishment, “To where?  
“We’ve sealed off a small self-sufficient island beyond US waters that we’re using as a temporary Safe Zone, and we're taking in any uninfected non-violent survivors who want to go. It was totally deserted at first and seems to be pretty far off the Hunters’ radar. We haven’t had much luck finding survivors so far though. You’re the first person we’ve found in weeks who isn’t too sick or dangerous to help. I only have three soldiers left under my command so obviously that makes searching difficult.”

"Wow ok,” I breathe, relived and terrified at the same time and thinking about how many billions of people on Earth must be dead right now and how few of us are left. “But if you think I’m non-violent then can I get this bag off my head?”  
“Sorry,” the Sarge chuckles, “It was just a precaution. We weren’t sure if you were hostile or feral or had even turned cannibal. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit we’ve seen.”

Small gloved hands remove the sack from my face and I'm surprised to see the dark, empty road isn’t so dark anymore. A large flashlight is beaming a wide red glow over the ground at our feet and in the crimson light I can see the Sarge and his two companions pretty clearly. All three have assault rifles slung over their shoulders and are dressed in camouflage fatigues and padded winter jackets with rank and name badges sewn on the sleeves and chests. Simmons is also wearing a camo helmet that hides her hair and keeps her eyes in shadow. Delonge is walking two steps behind us and when I turn to look at him he winks at me. He’s tall with the kind of eyes women go crazy for and his shaggy dark hair is shiny with gel. He walks with a skateboarder’s easy swagger, nothing militant about him, and I can’t imagine how or why he decided to join the forces in the first place. The Sarge is average height and his hair is cropped short in typical military style but I can’t see his face yet since he's walking in the lead and has his back to me. These guys definitely seem to be what they claim and they haven’t hurt me yet, but I’m still not sure if I should tell them about my friends. What if they actually turn out to be psychotic killers or Hunters in disguise?  
Then again if these are genuine soldiers and they really do have a Safe Zone full of supplies off the coast somewhere, then they can rescue Gerard and the others before it's too late.

“Hey, uh, Sarge…sir?” I ask nervously. The Sarge turns to face me briefly and I see that he has a neat beard and pale blue eyes. The name badge on his chest says BRYAR. “Yeah?”  
“I-I’m not alone out here,” I stammer, “My brother and his friends are a few miles away and they need help too. I mean they really need help, more than I do. Can you evacuate them?”  
Sergeant Bryar stops walking and throws his colleagues a pleased look. “Of course,” he says happily, “When we reach the Huey you can give our pilot directions and we’ll fly back and pick up your friends, okay?”  
“Yeah? Oh god, thank you!   
“How many of you are there?” Simmons asks.  
“Erm, six. So seven including me.”  
“And none of you are infected?”  
“No. We have our own scanner.”  
“Can we fit that many onboard?” Delonge asks sceptically.  
“Sure, if they don’t all need to lie down,” Bryar replies, “Are any of them injured?”  
“Sort of,” I answer, “And my brother has the flu or something but it’s not the Virus, you can test him and see.”  
“Alright, well Simmons is a Medic so she can see to that. We have some basic equipment and drugs on the Huey but once we get to the Safe Zone you'll have all the medicine and food you require.”  
“Thank you! I don't know what else to say, just...thank you so much. I mean we all thought we were gonna die out here and... Well one of us already died...” 

I’ve started crying I’m so relieved and the exhaustion and fear of the last few days suddenly hits me like a sledgehammer. Stumbling hard, I drop to my knees and Simmons instantly kneels down beside me in the dirt and wraps an arm around my shoulders while her companions stand aside. “It’s alright,” she whispers as I weep quietly, “You‘re safe now. You’re not gonna die. I won’t let that happen. It’s not much further and then we‘ll have you flown out of here for good. You’re gonna be okay. What‘s your name?”  
“Mikey,” I sniffle, taking a deep quivering breath as a massive weight lifts off my shoulders. I really am going to be saved from terror and starvation. A miracle has happened to me tonight, an actual fucking miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Sorry it took so long for me to update, work has been crazy. Thanks for sticking with me though, please comment if you can! xxx))


	27. Hold My Hand

**MIKEY'S P.O.V.**

To my embarrassment it takes several minutes of calming words and soothing shoulder pats from Simmons for me to stop crying. I'm so tired that any mental defences I had are in shreds and the last few days were overwhelmingly hard. When I can see and breathe normally again she gives me some water from her pack and Bryar leads us onwards to the helicopter. Thanks to me the two-mile trek takes a lot longer than it should but we get there in the end and damn the Huey is pretty badass. It was built to fly soldiers, guns and supplies into war and is currently parked, looming and silent, on some flat land between two hilltops looking like something out of a movie. It's long chunky body is painted dark gray with two huge black propellers erupting out of the roof and a smaller one in the tail. One of its wide metal sides is half-knocked out like a sliding door that is always open, and I can see medical gurneys and various supply cages strapped to the interior walls. A young woman is sitting in the pilot’s chair dressed in the same army gear as Bryar and the others except her helmet has a microphone attached to the side. As soon as we appear in her line of sight she stands and aims a large black gun at my face. “Stand down Edwards,” Bryar orders in a relaxed voice, “He’s a friendly one.”  
“Yessir,” the woman replies in a soft Texan accent, smiling and lowering her weapon, “Welcome back guys. I was startin' to get antsy.”

Simmons helps me onboard and into a chair that folds out of the wall while Sergeant Bryar explains the situation to Edwards. I'm gently questioned for about twenty minutes about where I've come from and the situation at the cabin before they all decide I’m not trying to lure them into a trap, and then Simmons gives me a bag of animal crackers to eat and Edwards starts the massive engine and roaring propellers. Bryar takes the co-pilot's chair while DeLonge and Simmons sit on the floor of the main compartment and clip safety lines from to the walls onto their belts and Edwards dims the Huey’s lights to near-darkness as we take off. Once we’re in the sky and flying level in what I think is the direction of the cabin, DeLonge pulls a portable DVD player and headphones out of his backpack and starts watching cartoons. It makes my heart jump and my throat tighten with nostalgia to see Tom and Jerry running around on the tiny screen and I don’t like how dizzy and sad I feel watching this snippet of the good old days while we soar over a land of desolation.

Edwards is an excellent pilot and after a while she manages to locate what I think is the cabin, bringing it up on the thermal-imaging screen of her control panel.  
“Any Hunters on the radar?” Bryar asks over the noise of spinning rotor blades.  
“Negative,” Edwards answers, “I can set us down about fifty feet away from the target but we‘re gonna make a lot of noise.”  
“Do it,” Bryar orders and Edwards touches down safely on the muddy lane beside the cabin's gloomy grove of bare trees and brown grass, “Mikey, I think you should go in first so we don’t freak out your friends.”  
“Yeah.”  
I feel a little nauseous and stomach-achey but totally pumped that I left the cabin with nothing a whole day and night ago and now I've returned with people who can save our lives.  


***  
**RYAN'S P.O.V.**

The world has ended. The bad guys won and the good guys never existed anyway and nothing fucking matters now. The future is cold and black, the present is sweat and pain and the past is gone forever and I don’t fucking care! These drugs are making me see clearer than I have in months. Fucked-up nasty stuff? It’s just pills. All those fucking pills. Bad memories can’t hurt me here. Nothing matters, no one cares. I want skin – salty slippery shivering skin. I want to suck Brendon’s life out through his neck and swallow and swallow. Nothing means a fucking thing! We’re all dead now. I took the pills and cut my wrists and Nicky isn't here. He was too much of an angel to belong in Hell but I deserve this place. I deserve the fire. Shiny red puddles and Ray’s mouth blown through the back of his skull. Nick's limp expressionless body wet with my tears. We are so very, very mortal.

Even the words we speak mean jack shit in another language. Just noises, meaningless vomit, and the same feelings and objects have a thousand different names. Nothing means a godamn thing without a world full of people to make it mean something. Especially not me. We're all just sounds and pictures and blood and mess and we flow over and through each other like sewage and we blur and shift and break and fall and die. Life without meaning is just Death in drag.

Ugh I'm itchy! Itchy bugs fucking crawling in my skin... I want Brendon so much I'll tear him apart just to touch him. My skin is shedding and I’m so dizzy I can‘t see anything but him. His neck, his face, his hair, his cock… I wanna fuck him like a dirty fucking WHORE and if anyone cared they would stop me but of course nobody does. Climbing over Brendon, holding him tight, sucking his skin. I’ve been so lonely for so long. I need to touch another human being and have them touch me back. I don’t care anymore if it’s wrong. Nothing on this whole damn planet will ever be right again!

Brendon pushes me away and his arms are like rivers and he's crying and rubbing his face. There's blood on my knuckles. Mine and his. I don't remember why. The walls are moving and I can see constellations through them. I can see forever and it's dark and empty and terrifying and I need Brendon's skin to being me back down. I'm flying so fucking high... Shit, what did I even take? Brendon won’t come back and I want to claw my eyes out. So warm and squishy...perfect circles. The only perfect shape on the entire human body. The only thing about me that isn't ruined or wrecked...Ow! Am I doing this right? Why does it hurt so much? They're only eyes, not anything real. I don’t know anything anymore and nothing is anything and everyone is broken filthy fucking trash. I want, need, HAVE to be touched but Brendon won’t let me near and he's crying and I'm crying. My eyes hurt and the stars are crimson red. Rub me, warm me up, hold me, fuck me…JUST FUCKING TOUCH ME!

***  
**GERARD'S P.O.V.**

Mikey has been missing for a day and a half and things in the cabin have gone from bad to completely fucking awful. James is unconscious and breathing his last breaths as his own blood kills him from the inside out and Patrick is paralysed by grief at his uncle's bedside, refusing to move or close his tired eyes for a single moment as he watches his only living relative slowly slip away.

We're more or less out of water and it's just a matter of time before we're as dead as the stuffed deer heads mounted on the cabin walls. I can feel my life ticking down to zero and my stomach is tied in knots of anxiety. Frank has been napping restlessly beside me for hours between panic attacks and crying fits that leave him exhausted and which I can barely calm him down from. I feel sick and thirsty and so weak I can barely walk and I know things are only going to get worse. The gun I stole from Sledgehammer is starting to look grossly tempting and I've stashed it under my pillow.

Brendon and Ryan have finally quietened down, on the comedown from the pills they've been eating like candy, but the two of them have been shouting and puking and tripping for so long that I can't tell if they've just now collapsed from exhaustion or are dying from an overdose. Brendon has crawled under my bed and is sobbing hoarsely and whispering to the dust-bunnies while Ryan sprawls on a rug a few feet away looking drained and pale and picking at his face and the dried blood on his arms, watching Brendon with spacey eyes. I kind of hate them right now. Or maybe I'm jealous. All of us have suffered more than any human being should but those two twerps might get to die high while I waste away stone cold sober and that sucks. I told Frank to throw the remaining pills on the fire a few hours ago and I'm kind of regretting it now. Fuck, we're going to die surrounded by our friends and I can’t think of anything sadder.

The blankets beside me shift and curl and I'm relieved to feel Frank's warm body snuggling up to mine. He fumbles around for one of my hands and squeezes it under the sheets and I take a deep calming breath and force myself to relax against him, closing my eyes and breathing in his smell as I try to block out the misery and impending doom all around us. He peeps up at me from under the covers with sleepy tear-stained bambi eyes and I find the energy to smile as a soothing glow of soppy affection warms my heart for him. Shuffling down deeper under the blankets, I start to rest my arm across his stomach but then remember the vicious cuts sliced across his belly under his clothes and settle for cuddling his arm instead, tucking my face into his shoulder and listening to his anxious heartbeat.  
We lie like that for a long time and I've almost fallen asleep when I suddenly hear the sound of someone vomiting and then Patrick crying muffled sobs of gut-wrenching pain and I know that James has died. Ice pours into my chest and I don't want to open my eyes but I have to. Patrick is kneeling by the other bed with his back to me and his face buried in the lumpy covers, his thin shoulders shaking as he weeps a river of ugly smothered tears. He's pulled the sheets up over James's face and I feel guiltily relieved that I don't have to look at the lifeless shell of yet another dead friend in a long line of losses.

Under the bed, Brendon has gone deathly silent and Ryan suddenly lurches onto his hands and knees and pounces at him, grabbing one of his wrists and trying to tug him out of his hiding place. The wound in Brendon's left shoulder is still fresh so when Ryan pulls hard enough, he howls with pain and bites Ryan’s hand, making him let go. Glaring daggers of shock and pain, Ryan snarls like an animal and for some reason starts slamming his own face into the hard floorboards until his forehead swells and splits and blood runs down his face. Next to me Frank stares wide-eyed at the growing insanity with his lips twitching as he squeezes my fingers so tight it hurts.

Then something happens that makes every single one of us freeze in horrified silence: the rapid thumping roar of helicopter blades echoes outside: getting louder with every second.

Hunters! It has to be. Fuck! Not them, PLEASE not them! Hardly breathing, we all look to the ceiling in shock and terror as the roaring chopper gets so close it sounds like it must be hovering directly over the cabin. Whining softly, Ryan slumps back against James's bed and stares upwards in slack-jawed awe as blood trickles into his glazed eyes and Patrick curls up with his knees to his chest mouthing 'no, no, no, no, no...' in speechless fright. Still half under the bed, Brendon buries his face in his hands and groans while Frank cowers fearfully against me cradling the hand that was once broken by the Hunters against his chest. He's shivering and already panting with panic that is no doubt worsened by the demons shrieking in his ears. I can't let him get hurt again. Not like this. Not by Hunters. I love him too much to let him suffer another moment of pain when I could so something b to stop it. Through all the bad times – through the horrors in the city and the desolation of the open road we've always had each other, Frankie and me in the middle of it all. Now with certain death approaching outside, it looks like that’s how its going to end tonight: with both of us leaving this fucked-up world together. We tried so hard for so long just to survive in this cruel abortion of a world but everything is ending so quickly now and I know we have to die. Hopefully the Hunters will kill us instantly with bullets in the head rather than risk contamination by touching us and I think that's the way it should be: after all the horrific things we’ve seen we should at least get to go quickly. Almost painless. Instant. I don't want to die – of course I don't! - but it's all slipping away now and if the Hunters even try to capture us I have a solution under my pillow to make sure that Frank and I never have to suffer again.

Ignoring the others, I throw my arms around Frank's shoulders and pull him closer and he looks up at me and smiles. He actually SMILES like everything is going to be okay, and I suppose to him a bullet in the brain is the final escape from the evil, hurtful voices in his mind. The constant stinging, nagging, vicious monsters that have tortured him into a barely recognisable shadow of himself could be snuffed out in the blink of an eye and he could rest in peace forever.

My mind is racing and I'm breathing too quickly to taste the oxygen as I press my lips against his and kiss him hard and desperately. He kisses me back and his hands grip my shoulders, my jaw, the back of my neck as we taste each other and feel each other's warmth for the last time. My rushing thoughts slam back to when Sledgehammer nearly shot Frankie in the truck and when he ran away the night Nicholas died and I can’t help but feel guilty that I forced him to keep living both times and stay in hell with me. It’s not like I had any medication to give him, or access to any professional medical help so why did I let him suffer? Am I really so selfish that I prolonged his misery just because I didn’t want to let him go? No. I did it because he is the most important, vital, precious person in the universe to me and I would do anything to keep him hopeful and alive, even if there was only a tiny chance of him having a happier brighter future, I wanted him to have that chance.

But now I hear the sinister boom of the helicopter landing outside and I know that in less than a minute a squad of Hunters will be kicking down the cabin door to slaughter us all. This is it: the final curtain. I don't want to die this way but I suppose it's better than starving to death and at least Frank is with me and he knows he's loved. We can finally stop trying and fighting and hurting. We’ve given survival our best shot but against the Hunters we can‘t do it anymore. All our other options have been ripped away and here at the end it's all going to come down to bullets. Bullets is all we are.

“They‘re coming!” Frank blurts into my mouth, pulling breathlessly away with his eyes fixed on mine. He almost squeaks the last word because he’s so scared and excited, like a little kid at a carnival... A lost little kid no one will find until a monster devours him whole.

Outside the helicopter’s engine shuts down and I know we only have seconds left. “I love you Frankie,” I gasp, the words tumbling out choked and rushed as my arms tremble around his body and I hug him so tight he feels like a part of me. I never want to let him go. “I love you too, so so much,” he whispers, burying his wet face in my neck and kissing my skin, “Goodbye Gee. Thanks for saving me. Every day you saved me and I never forgot it. I’ll n-never forget!”  
“I‘m sorry,” I sob as heavy footsteps approach the cabin door and Frank squeezes me harder. With a slow, deep breath I slide my hand under my pillow, grip the loaded gun and brace myself. The Hunters will kill us or I will. The Hunters will set us free or I will. This ugly world will melt away.

Frank tenses and stiffens in my arms and I assume it's because he’s scared but then he rips forcefully out of my embrace and scowls darkly, his eyes clouded with an alien rage and violence. He's not seeing me in front of him anymore. He's seeing something else. Or someONE else.  
“Frankie?”  
“Go to hell!” he screams, shoving me violently against the headboard and snapping his hands closed in a noose around my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---------------------------------------------------- ((Once again, apologies for the delay in updating!  
> My life is spiralling right now and I really hope you're all still reading this and if you are, thanks for bearing with me and please feel free to comment and let me know you still want to read on.  
> We're getting towards the end of things now... xx)) --------------------------------------------


	28. Going Under

**MIKEY'S P.O.V.**

I don’t intend to knock on the cabin door - it seems pointless as there’s no way to know how much the noise of the helicopter has scared everybody inside. But as we approach I hear someone shouting, their voice raised in fear, and just as my hand turns the unlocked door handle a gunshot thunders out of the quiet! Bryar and Simmons are with me and immediately draw their weapons, aiming them at the cabin. Simmons shoves me roughly behind her, moving in front of me and Bryar locks eyes with her and mouths “I...2...3!” before kicking the heavy door open and revealing the mess inside. 

The first thing I notice is the smell. When I left the cabin was stuffy and overheated and smelled like woodsmoke and locker rooms but now the stench of puke and blood rolls out through the open door in waves and fear chokes my throat. I can smell death. Oh god. Gerard!

My military escorts creep stealthily into the darkened main room looking alert and wary and I follow with my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to see my brother. The first person we find is Ryan crouched frozen on the floor near the entryway with half his clothes torn-off and his arms and face caked in dried blood. His pale skin is shining with sweat and he's panting raspily as crimson trickles from a gash in his forehead, his brown eyes huge and unfocused. He's unarmed and Simmons immediately crouches beside him and whips out her Virus scanner while Bryar shouts out the door for Delonge to fetch a medical trauma kit on the double. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED WHILE I WAS GONE?! 

Running past Ryan, I catch sight of the bed nearest the door. Someone is lying on it as still as death with a sheet pulled up over their face. Ohmygod! Who...? Out of the orange shadows cast by glowing embers in the smoking hearth I can make out Brendon and Patrick kneeling on the floor beside the body in a wide pool of watery yellow vomit. Brendon's bandages are missing and his swollen bloody eye is oozing tears and pus as he stares blearily at his trembling soot-stained hands, his chest and neck dappled with fresh cuts and bruises.

Patrick's eyes are tear-stained red and he looks up at me in speechless shock when I approach with his bottom lip quivering like a lost little child. I take a nervous step towards him and he shrinks away, gesturing helplessly at the body on the bed who I realise now must be James since on the other bed... my brother is sitting with a smoking gun in his hand and Frank lying bleeding on the sheets beside him. 

My jaw drops and for a moment I can’t move I'm so stunned. Then Gerard raises his wide traumatized eyes to meet mine and before I know it I'm over there wrapping my arms around him and prying the gun from his clammy hand. “Gee, oh god, what happened? Are you alright?” I blurt frantically as he breaks down sobbing in ragged gasps with tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry I left, Gee, I’m so sorry! But look, I found help and… I’m back now, it’s okay.”

“No it's not,” he cries, shoving my arms away, “It’s not okay Mikey! I took the fucking gun to Frank's head!”  
“You shot him?! Why?”  
“I didn't shoot...It w-was cos of Her, She made him h-hurt me!” he sobs, his wide eyes haunted, and I finally notice the red finger-marks ringed around his neck, “The gun w-was under my pillow and I just... I had to m-make him stop and it went off when I hit him! Is he hurt bad? Did I shoot anyone? MIKEY, DO SOMETHING!”

Looking warily at Frank’s body, I reach over and check his pulse. He's still alive and I can't see any bullet wounds but judging by the nasty gash in his forehead pouring blood Gerard must have hit him with the gun barrel pretty damn hard. A moment later he stirs and groans softly, his eyelids flickering as he winces with pain. “I’m sorry!" Gerard cries frantically, pushing me aside and leaning over his boyfriend’s chest, “I’m so sorry Frankie. I know I can’t do anything right for you. I'm sorry!”

Ugh. Trust my brother to fall in love with a crazy person who tries to strangle him. Glancing away in exasperation, I find Simmons standing right behind us with an open med-kit in her gloved hands so I stand up and grab Gerard’s by the shoulders, gently pulling him to his feet so she can get to Frank. Once he's standing up he leans weakly against me, trembling with every breath and watches Simmons like a hawk as I gently stroke his hair to try and calm him down. He smells like stale sweat and fear.  
“What’s his name?” the soldier asks, quickly scanning Frank NEGATIVE for the Virus before opening his dazed eyes one at a time with her forefinger and shining a tiny light into them. "Frank,” Gerard’s mumbles, sniffing back tears and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “Who are you?”  
“It’s okay Gee,” I reassure him, “She’s here to help us. They’re all here to help.”  
“Well they're too late,” he whispers in a broken voice, “James died, Mikey, h-he died and then we heard a helicopter and everybody panicked. Was that you?" "Yeah," I sigh, "That was us." He nods and rubs a hand through his hair, wincing as he scrapes his injured scalp, "Then Frankie...changed and I tried to stop him but...is he okay?”  
“Shhhhh, he's gonna be fine. And these guys are US military. Good guys. They're gonna take us somewhere safe. Shit, I'm really sorry about James. I wish I'd got back sooner.”  
“Yeah.”  
He’s too exhausted to say anything else and I hug him close and rub his back while Simmons talks to Frank and finally gets him to open his eyes. “He might be dangerous,” I warn her over Gerard‘s head, “He gets violent sometimes. I think he's schizophrenic or something.”  
“Okay,” she says calmly, holding her index finger up in front of Frank’s face and moving it from side to side, “Can you follow my finger, Frank?”

Meanwhile Sergeant Bryar is speaking softly to Brendon and Patrick while Delonge helps Ryan over by the door.  
“Did you make these cuts on your arm yourself?” I can hear the Californian soldier asking. No response. “Did someone else do this to you? Hey...can you talk?”  
When Ryan still doesn’t answer, Delonge snaps two fingers in front of his blank face and sighs, “Come on kid, look at me. Can you tell me your name?” Ryan looks blearily up at the stranger crouching over him and blinks. “Whuh?”  
“What‘s your name?” Delonge repeats gently.  
“I... Is Brendon okay?” Ryan croaks, “He wouldn’t come out from under the bed.” 

“I'm not sure,” Delonge says worriedly, pulling a thick pad of gauze out of his trauma kit and holding it against the leaking wound between Ryan’s eyebrows. Ryan frowns and swats the taller man's hand away, holding the gauze in place himself with clumsy fingers which I guess is a good sign. He’s obviously sky-high on something though: sweating buckets and his brown eyes are dilated and glassy. Delonge gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder and hands him a flask full of drinking water, “Let's take care of you first and then we can go check on, uh, Brendon. Cool?” 

Simmons quickly plasters Frank's forehead with a temporary bandage and helps him sit up and Gerard practically throws himself at the bed, kissing Frank's dazed face and muttering frantic apologies while Bryar coaxes Brendon and Patrick up off the floor and gets them to sit down on some actual chairs. Brendon is in much the same state as Ryan and as soon as Bryar gives him some water he gulps it down thirstily until it's all gone. Patrick on the other hand is much less responsive. He looks like he's in shock and won't say a single word to answer Bryar's hesitant questions or touch the water bottle thrust upon him. Instead he just shuts his eyes and drops his head down between his knees like someone who feels like they might faint. The fingers on his hand with the broken wrist are turning blue and he's badly shaking.

***  
When Simmons has scanned and examined everybody and confirmed James's death, Bryar clears his throat and addresses the room, “Um, I'm sorry to have to ask but do you want us to bring your friend's body along? We have space on the chopper but maybe you'd like us to bury him here?”  
“No!” Patrick cries in anguish, lifting his head to speak at last, “We can't leave him here, it's dead here! Please don't make me leave him!”  
Gerard pipes up in agreement, “Yeah without James all of us would have died a long time ago. We have to take him with us, we all owe him so much.” Frank is cuddled up peacefully in my brother's arms now and Gerard looks at him with a mixture of affection and apprehension and adds in a whisper so quiet I can barely hear it, “I owe him everything.”

So Simmons and Edwards bring in a bodybag and stretcher and take James outside while Bryar and Delonge pull the others to their feet and help them put on coats and boots. Brendon acts weirdly when he gets near Ryan, cowering away from him and anxiously rubbing some bitemarks on his neck, and Delonge discovers that he has to keep the two of them at least an arm's length apart, the drugs in their starved bodies making them paranoid and hostile. Patrick is also a total wreck and even after Bryar finally coaxes him into having a few sips of water the poor kid is so wiped out from grief and hunger that he stumbles and passes out three steps from the cabin door and the Sarge picks him up and carries him outside. As we shuffle towards the waiting chopper I have to hold on to Gerard pretty tight because fever and stress have made him so weak but with Simmon’s help I get him and Frank safely onboard and belted into some fold-out seats against the wall. The bodybag is stored in a closed compartment out of sight but there's a knot of guilty misery in my stomach that won't go away. If only I had got the soldiers here faster maybe they could have saved James' life. If only I hadn't been so pathetically upset they wouldn't have had to waste time calming me down before we could fly. If only, if only... shoulda woulda coulda. Fuck this whole fucking life. 

Bryar lies Patrick down on a stretcher and leaves Simmons to care for him while Delonge bandages Ryan’s arm and head and gives everybody a blanket and a helmet to wear and a bottle of grape soda to drink. Brendon rejects everything he’s given at first and even tries jumping out of the parked Huey, still rattled and twitchy from the chemicals tearing his brain apart, but Edwards manages to sit him down in the co-pilots chair and show him that he's not a prisoner and even tastes his soda to prove that it's safe to drink. While she's talking softly to him and gaining his trust, Delonge sneaks up behind him with a sedative injection and carries him unconscious back to the rear compartment where Simmons can re-bandage his eye.

There were a few undissolved pills in the puddles of vomit in the cabin and Simmons manages to get out of Ryan the rough quantities that he took. After looking at the pills’ colour and markings, she realises what they are and assures the rest of us that Ryan and Brendon should sober up in the next couple of hours, albeit with major headaches. “You won’t need to take shitty drugs when we get where we‘re going,” she tells Brendon as he slowly comes around from the sedatives weeping silent tears that are pink with blood, “You won‘t need them anymore, I promise.”

***  
When everyone is stable and safe, Edwards powers up the Huey's lights and engine and we rise up into the pale dawn sky as scarlet sunbeams start to crawl over the horizon. I sit with Gerard and he rests his head on my shoulder while Frank leans drowsily against him and watches the morning mist drift by. Gee's eyes are puffy and red and the bruises on his neck look sore but he seems to be completely drained of all energy and emotion and we don't say a word to each other the entire time. At this point after everything that's happened what is there to say anyway?

As the Huey flies us further and further away from the muck and pain of the hills and highways, people start drifting off into exhausted sleep despite the cold and noise while the soldiers talk amongst themselves. Patrick wakes up after a rehydrating I.V and some painkillers and sits hunched over his knees gazing out at the fading moon and twisting his safety belt into knots. His broken wrist has been reset again and he picks endlessly at the rough medical tape, misery covering his young face like a cloak. The guilty ache in my stomach gets worse when I look at him so after a while I try to pretend he's not there but it doesn't help.

We fly steadily higher into the vast empty sky, heading South-East towards safety, and I feel like nothing can hurt us up here in the void as we journey to a pre-planned fuel stop and then onwards over the shimmering green ocean. 

Simmons starts chatting to me and Frank about where we're going, keeping him awake through his concussion and trying to cheer me up I guess, and once we’re a mile or so from the shore Edwards plays a Springsteen CD on the Huey’s sound system. 

It’s incredibly surreal listening to pop rock and drinking purple sugar water in the clouds while millions of people are lying dead far below us and I feel like my chest is caving in when I think about how many have died in the year since the Virus appeared. Mainland America smells like rot and decay and I'm glad to leave it behind. It doesn’t smell bad up in the sky. Way up here the air is fresh like cold spring rain and I'm anxious and hopeful that our destination will be a place where we can heal and take care of ourselves again. The apocalypse came and went and now we're stuck with the bitter remains and I don't know what to do with it all. I don't know how to make it better for Gerard or myself or for anybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Hi lovelies, sorry for the wait again. The next chapter after this will be the last one so please please comment and thank you so so much for reading. The end is nigh. xxx))


	29. Endings

2 MONTHS LATER…

**FRANK'S POV**

My cries in the dark... “Gerard HELP! I can't breathe ...P-Please make it stop! MAKE THEM STOP!”

Waking with a jolt, I catch my breath and remember where I am. Scrubbing my eyes with clumsy fingers, I roll onto my back on the soft creaky mattress and watch the nightmare fade into blessed nothingness. A bleary glance around our small hut tells me I'm safe and sound and I silently start counting all the objects I can see to ground myself and leave my bad dreams behind: the usual piles of clothes, a dozen CDs and an old battery-powered stereo, twenty-three books, and Gerard's papers and pencils scattered over the wooden crate in the corner. A warm breeze blows through the thin wooden walls and bright comforting daylight beams in through the tiny window. My heart-rate starts to slow as I take deep breaths of salty cool air into my lungs and whisper my daily mantra to myself: This is a safe place and I am safe in it. No one can hurt me here and no one will touch me without my permission. I'm safe here and I can breathe and everything is alright...this is a safe place...

The digital watch under my pillow says 10:05 AM. Yawning loudly, I bury my face in the sheets and consider staying put but I don't really want to be alone. Gerard's probably gone out to the Mess Tent for breakfast already and decided not to wake me. Ugh, I'm such a heavy sleeper on my new medication. Sitting up, I grab my water flask and pill bottles off the floor and quickly swallow my morning dose, swilling my mouth out afterwards to try and get rid of the chalky after-taste.

There's a cleanish towel scrunched up on the deckchair near the door and I think about heading down to the lake to wash up. I'm all sticky with dried sweat and there's sand between my toes and in my hair from last night's explorations on the beach. The memory of Gerard lying beneath me in the dunes with his happy perfect eyes shining with moonlight makes me smile and blush and I finally haul myself out of bed with a pleasant tingling in my stomach.

Outside the sun is shining and I can hear music playing and the distant sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen tent. The scent of eggs and bacon frying wafts into the hut and I wonder how well the island's chickens laid this week. My favorite hen is called Dorothy and she has these funny tufts of feathers draped over her feet like Seventies disco flares. Dressing quickly in jeans, shoes and last night's t-shirt, I grab my walkman and the identity card Bryar makes us all wear around our necks and step out into the bright day, ignoring the weak hiss of Her voice buzzing in the back of my mind like an annoying mosquito. She can go fuck Herself. The meds will kick in soon and help me stay in control and there are much worse things than a few bad words in paradise.

I’m doing a lot better than when we first got here and that’s good enough I guess. The future isn't as scary and unknown as it used to be but if I start worrying about what might or might not happen further down the road I might lose myself again. Then Gerard would have to look after me like he's had to do for the last six months and I don't want that to keep happening. I'm a grown man and I want to look after myself well enough to be the partner he most deserves, not just the man he loves.

Dr Dane, the island phychiayrist, says I’m improving every day but I still have to drown myself in music when the sun goes down and sometimes I get a flash of Denver stroking my lips or rubbing himself between my legs when Gerard touches me and I have to tell myself over and over - sometimes out loud, sometimes screaming - that the dirty pedo is dead and rotting and he can't ever lay his stinking flesh on me again. That evil sonofabitch is gone forever and Gerard's beautiful fingers and perfect mouth and warm body are all that matter. I’m safe here. I’m SAFE here. This is a safe place...

It's been two months since Sergeant Bryar and his team flew us out of hell into what passes for heaven in an apocalyptic world. The green forests and golden sands of Alpha-Delta Island are beautiful and peaceful and it's about as far removed from the horror and blood of the mainland as it's possible to get. But there's a long road to recovery for all of us and it's not over. The wounds of trauma and torture don't just wash away. Feeling comfortable in my own head isn't something I know how to do anymore but at least I can hold conversations and joke around and sleep through the night again without waking up in tears so that‘s cool.

Bryar and the other soldiers take good care of everyone who lives here - about fifty people in total so far - and there’s enough animals and plants on the island and cans stored in the pantries to keep us fed for a long time. Once a month Edwards and another pilot, a guy named Rev, fly to other islands and mainland South America on supply runs and bring back boxes of canned goods, cigarettes, batteries, tampons, books, matches, sterilisation tablets, paper, beer, pharmaceuticals, sacks of dried rice, clothing and whatever else they can find. It's not a bad life here but I still ache and mourn inside for the old pre-Virus world and whenever it rains and the chemicals in the clouds paint oily rainbows onto the sea everything looks so endless and grey and I can't deal with knowing that nearly every human being out there beyond the ocean is dead. Gerard has to hold me extra tight on rainy days and Dr Dane gets a lot of visits.

There are plenty of scars on my face and body to match the bad memories in my mind and sometimes the bones in my hands hurt where they were once broken but I am healing... slowly. Along with everyone else. I've repressed or blacked out a lot of things that happened in the City and on the road afterwards but I remember being lost and scared and helpless and in pain - a lot of pain for a very long time - and I know I wouldn't have made it without Gerard. I owe him my life a hundred times over and I don’t know how he copes with me and my stupid scrambled brain but he does and he's like this bottomless well of kindness and encouragement and affection that never runs empty. I feel bad that I'm not strong enough yet to give him as much support in return. All I know is that I love him more than anything in the world and he loves me too and when we're close I feel safe and warm and it's what we both need and it’s so fucking good.

After washing my face and hands in one of the rain barrels outside I wander into the Mess with a few of the other lazier citizens of Alpha-Delta and see Simmons working behind the serving counter. She smiles at me and ladles sloppy rations of scrambled eggs and beans onto my plate and I manage to smile back before scuttling away to where Gerard, Patrick and Brendon are sitting at a plastic table in the corner. Gee's eyes light up when he sees me and my soppy heart practically fucking glows. “Hey Frankie. Did you sleep okay?” I shrug and sit down beside him, giving his knee a squeeze and reminding myself to breathe as the noise of the kitchen and people talking at other tables gets louder. “Yeah... Sort of. I don't remember the nightmares once I'm awake. Is that good or bad?”  
“I hope it's good.”

Patrick and Brendon nod politely in greeting but it's obvious their thoughts are elsewhere so I don't make an attempt at conversation. They were probably sitting in silence before I arrived, only eating together out of habit and a reluctance to make new friends. As usual Patrick is picking at his food with disinterest and barely eating any of it. After a couple of minutes he sighs gloomily and gives up, dropping his fork and shoving the plate at Brendon who immediately starts chowing down on the remains. It's the same routine every day and it makes me feel bad inside. Out of all of us Patrick is probably having the hardest time dealing with everything that's happened and even Dr Dane has hit a wall trying to help him. Without James he's got no family left and no real friends except us and we're pretty busy sorting out our own shit. As far as I know he spends most of his time alone in the woods near James's grave or by the sea playing with an old Gameboy and scribbling in the battered notebook he carries everywhere. He barely eats and according to Mikey who bunks with him he doesn't sleep much either. He's lost so much weight he's even thinner than Ryan now and his blue eyes are permanently bloodshot and dark from lack of rest and the extra coffee rations Simmons gives him out of pity. He stopped talking not long after we got here and still refuses to speak to anyone and he's let his reddish-blond hair grow out so it constantly falls in his eyes and lets him hide his gaze behind it like a mask. Bryar put him on suicide watch for a while but he hasn't tried to hurt himself. He's just sad. I can relate to that.

Brendon quickly finishes his own food after demolishing Patrick's and both of them leave the table and go their separate ways, wandering off to do their chores. Everyone who lives here has to contribute to the maintainable of the colony for at least an hour or two every day. I usually help out in the vegetable gardens because working with the soil keeps me calm. Gerard inventories supplies and I think Patrick helps Edwards and Rev maintain and fly the two Huey helicopters. The only time he ever comes close to smiling is when he's around those choppers and their engines and I hope he starts talking again soon so I can ask him about it.

I have no idea what Brendon's job on the island is but he and Ryan always seem to be out "patrolling" with Delonge which translates into walking around Alpha-Delta's perimeter in the sunshine and getting high on the soldier's personally-grown weed. Lucky bastards. The one time I tried smoking some of that kind bud it reacted badly with my medication and I was spun out for hours thinking my own shadow was trying to murder me. After a nasty infection, Brendon's injured eye had to be completely removed so he wears a patch over the empty socket and combined with his island suntan and scruffy hair it kind of makes him look like a pirate. He and Ryan both drink and smoke heavily to deal with their armies of personal demons and I guess we all deal with pain in different ways. I'm so fucking grateful I have Gerard.

We leave the Mess tent together after everyone else scatters and I feel drowsy and spaced out as the sun climbs higher into the hazy sky and sparkles on the ocean. Gee takes my hand and leads me down to the northern beach where we curl up in the warm dunes and make out for a while, his hands tugging lightly at my hair and stroking the nape of my neck as I snuggle into him and taste his lips, rubbing my hand against his chest in lazy circles. Only once does a bad image rocket through my mind and I tense up and flinch away, feeling sick and like I've been punched in the face. Gerard patiently lies back and waits for me to calm down, carefully taking my clammy shaking hand in his and rubbing his thumb against my wrist until my pulse slows down. He doesn't need to ask why I had to stop kissing him. He understands.

A little while later we're sitting on the rocks bordering the water watching a seagull paddle on the curling waves when a faint voice calls Gee's name from the cliffs and we look up to see Mikey approaching with a a clipboard and walkie talkie in his hands. “Time to go to work,” Gerard sighs, sitting up and brushing sand from his clothes. He gazes seriously into my eyes, “Will you be okay love?”  
“Yeah, I'll be fine,” I tell him, taking an exaggerated deep breath and slowly exhaling into the fresh seaweedy breeze. He kisses my cheek and stands up, walking away with his brother towards the storage huts and I watch them disappear until my eyes blur and I have to rub them dry, still tasting bitter pills in the back of my throat.

Wandering down to the water, I kick off my sneakers and stand in the shallows wearing my headphones and hugging my walkman – my lifeline - to my chest as the waves soak my jeans and wash the baggy wet denim around my ankles in a soothing rhythm. New Jersey punk-rock plays in my ears and it sounds hard and good and right and reminds me of old times and faraway places and lost friends. Gray clouds are forming on the horizon and the smell of frying food ripples the air as a few people cast out fishing lines from the rocks a little way down the sand. Gerard will be back in an hour or so... I still have to convince myself constantly that he WILL always come back for me, he will ALWAYS be back... and then we can carry on this strange, tragic, cosy, lonely, lucky, bittersweet life at the end of the world.

 

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A massive thank you to everyone who has read this  
> or given feedback or waited patiently for updates.  
> I love you all and I hope you liked this ending -  
> bearing in mind my original plan was to kill off  
> every single character lol. Thanks again.  
> I'll keep writing stories as long as people keep reading.  
> Feel free to comment below.  
> xx)


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